


Blood and Sand - Historyman

by EitakaJasont



Series: Mad Max: Blood and Sand [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-05-16 10:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EitakaJasont/pseuds/EitakaJasont
Summary: (Book 2) The mountain city of Ares looms ahead. Armed with a new title, a small arsenal, and a canine companion, I hunt a Handmaiden who escaped paradise. The reward: one wish granted by a Goddess. The price: a lifetime of guilt. But there's still plenty of danger standing between me and that choice. In a way, it's a relief. Never been much good at moral dilemmas, anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

The sun hangs high in the sky as my blood-covered vehicle speeds across the open Wasteland. Strong desert winds push against the car, forcing me to constantly wrestle for control on the loose ground. Feels like it could whip up into a sandstorm at any minute - not an uncommon occurrence in the flatter parts of the Wastes. The sheltered, rocky cliffs of Eden are already far behind me.

I breathe a small sigh of relief, glad to be officially out of the Goddess Anuket's territory. Not even the seemingly endless supply of water is worth the paranoia, distrust, and strict rules - not to mention Anuket's absolute power. As much as I hate the heat, the never-ending sand, and the constant fear of being attacked, I actually feel a little better now that I'm out of the city. In there, it's all bodies and mouths. Pushing and talking. I don't like doing either of those. Out here is familiar. Nothing is expected of me; there are no rules. I make deals with bullets, not words. It's simpler that way.

My mission, on the other hand, isn't so simple. Anuket's runaway Handmaiden, Trace, vanished without leaving any trail to follow. Thanks to a tip from the remaining Handmaidens and some information from the merchant Yale, I'm on my way to the city of Ares. But it's a long shot at best. All I know is that my target might be looking for a Historyman - someone who has books and a lot of pre-Fall knowledge. I don't know why Trace would risk her life for something like that; then again, I don't really know Trace at all. She acted nice to me in Eden, and I got it in my head that she saw something in me. Something more than just another brutal Road Warrior. But now she's gone, and I'm supposed to hunt her down for her Goddess. Just another bounty, yeah? Part of me isn't so sure, but I'll save that decision for when - _if _I find her.__

I have two days of barren nothingness ahead. Tribune Khopesh, former Blackthumb of Eden, is also headed to Ares. The young Road Warrior has a few hours' head start on me, but I don't know if he'll risk going through the Graveyard of Giants. Khopesh is injured and inexperienced, but he's also eager to prove himself among other Road Warriors. If the Tribune has learned anything from his first Road War, though, he'll take the long way around and avoid trouble. Guess that means I haven't learned anything. But if I make it to Ares before Khopesh, I may be able to find Trace and get out before he even knows I was there. He claims not to be interested in the bounty, but something tells me he'd change his mind if the opportunity presented itself. One wish granted by a Goddess is a hard reward to pass up.

At some point, I'll hit the Graveyard, whatever it is. Till then, I have nothing to do but sit and think. On drives like these, I don't usually have much on my mind. Now I have too much, and all I want to do is ignore it.

"How you doing, Jaw?" I ask, trying to distract myself by talking to my companion.

The thin, sand-colored canine looks at me and tilts his bloodstained head. He's not much for conversation since he can't answer, of course, but it's nice to have someone to talk to besides my car. Who would have thought I would ever be in a conversation where I'm the talkative one?

"Think we'll run into Khopesh in Ares?" I continue. "Maybe we'll get to see his new arm. I wonder what it'll be like. The city, I mean - not Khopesh's arm. What do you think?"

Time passes slowly. The sun barely seems to move in the sky. All around my vehicle, the wind whips through the sand. Jaw falls asleep at some point, but that doesn't stop me from saying something to him every now and then. Commenting on the weather, wishing chicken wire were better at keeping out dust, recalling the look on Vates's face when Jaw ripped his throat to shreds...

The wind suddenly picks up, howling wildly and drowning out my voice. Even more sand flies into the cab, stinging my eyes. Outside, the world turns yellow, making it nearly impossible to see what's ahead. A true sandstorm. To make matters worse, I feel myself going downward. The previously level terrain becomes a steep slope, and I have to press the brakes to keep from picking up too much speed as I race blindly into some kind of valley.

"Shit," I say, but all that does is let sand into my mouth. I spit it out and cover the lower half of my face with my scarf.

Jaw wakes up and looks around nervously, blinking back the dust that tries to blow into his eyes. Maybe I should get a scarf for him, too. And a set of goggles. Wouldn't mind a pair of those for myself, either.

I narrow my eyes and peer ahead, trying to make out my surroundings through the whirling sands. Finally, the ground levels out again. Piles of scrap appear out of the dust, and I swerve to avoid them. My foot eases off the gas a little, giving me more time to dodge anything else that might get in my way. I can't completely stop to wait out the storm; it would just bury me in sand. Gotta keep moving.

More and more scrap heaps materialize. Lots of metal and many vehicles lie unclaimed here. Could this be the Graveyard? If it is, maybe the sandstorm will hide me from the tribals I was warned about. Or they could be used to this weather, which means they'd have me right where they want me. I take out my pistol and set it in my lap.

The storm gets worse, screaming in my good ear and embedding grit in my exposed skin. Jaw buries his head in his paws, trying desperately to avoid the sand. I focus on driving, constantly twisting the wheel to avoid chunks of metal. Out of the corner of my eye, massive grey shapes come into view through the dust. They are so big that the sand struggles to hide them completely, only obscuring their true size and form. Buildings, maybe? Ruins? Whatever they are, they don't seem to be moving; this is the resting place for these Giants.

Suddenly, my car lurches, and I hear metal scraping metal over the sound of the storm. Must have finally hit a piece of scrap. I can hardly see anything through the storm now, but that doesn't stop my eyes from darting back and forth, seeing things that might not even be there. My fingers grip the wheel so tightly that they hurt. No sane person would drive in this weather in unknown, hostile territory. Yet here I am.

Another sound emerges through the howling. More metal? Sand blasting against something nearby? No, this new noise is unmistakable: an engine. Not mine. Closeby. Then it vanishes. I don't hear or see any vehicle, but I know I'm not alone out here.

Deep breaths. Focus. But it's impossible to get enough air through the scarf and the grit. I feel closed in. Stuck. Nowhere to go. Like in that hallway in Anuket's palace. Maybe it's just another lone Road Warrior just trying to make it through the storm. Maybe it's Khopesh. No, I'd never be that lucky.

There it is again! This time, the engine growl remains steady. I can still hardly hear it over the storm, but I think it's getting louder. Closer. Then, on my driver side, the vehicle finally appears. I can just barely make out the vague shape and size through the yellow haze. The machine is only slightly bigger than my ride, which is a relief after facing Vates's enormous War Rig. But that's where the good news ends. The mysterious vehicle stays at that distance - just far enough away to render any shots from me nearly useless. The driver and any possible passengers are obscured by dust. They are experienced, perfectly keeping pace with me and never moving close enough for me to get a better look.

While I'm distracted by the stranger, my car suddenly jolts to the side. Metal on metal again, this time much louder. Something hit me. On the passenger side, another vehicle scrapes against my ride before putting some distance between us, matching the car on the other side. A glance in my rearview mirror reveals another car close behind me. Trapped.

I continue driving, trying to come up with a plan. If I stop, they have me. I could try to ram one of them out of the way, but there's a risk I'd spin out in the sand. Speeding up means potentially running into something I can't see. Before I can think for very long, the vehicle on the right swerves close and nudges my ride, forcing me to veer left a little. After a few moments, it happens again. Then again. They're leading me somewhere.

Jaw snaps his head up and growls every time one of the cars bumps into us. I resist the urge to do the same.

"I know, buddy," I mumble behind the scarf. "We're in trouble, yeah?"

Can't breathe, can't see, can't escape. But there is one thing I can do: get ready for a fight. Pistol in my lap; rifle leaning against my leg; revolver, crossbow, and ammo in the passenger seat with Jaw, who sits protectively next to them. Everything in place, everything reloaded, everything ready. Doesn't do much to ease my nerves, though. Sand whips through the window and sticks to the cold sweat on my forehead and hands. I hope more than ever that Khopesh didn't decide to go this way.

My pursuers continue to herd me for what feels like a very long time. Whenever one gets close, I try to get a better look at the driver, but the windows are tinted. I've seen a lot of excellent drivers in the Wastes, but I've never known drivers capable of cooperating well enough to corral a Road Warrior through a sandstorm. Not a single shot fired, and no obvious attempts to murder me. They want me alive for now. That makes me more nervous than gunshots.

Finally, a large mass of metal takes form directly before me. I step on the brakes, but the vehicle behind me rams my rear bumper, forcing me forward. I try to swerve, but the flanking cars close in together to keep me in place. Helpless, I take my hands off the wheel and cover my head, preparing to crash.

Everything goes dark, but I don't hit anything. I look up to find myself speeding through a narrow, metal tunnel. I grab the wheel again, steadying the tires on the sand that covers the half-buried pipe. The winds slam against the outside of the tube, but the air inside is still. I blink the grit out of my eyes and let them adjust to the low light. The cylinder is long, narrow, and completely empty save for some infrastructure holding up the round shape. Suddenly, the back wall looms up out of the darkness. I slam on the brakes, barely avoiding a collision.

I yank the scarf away from my face and take a few deep breaths of the relatively clean air. Jaw stands up and shakes the sand out of his fur, sneezing a couple times. The noise echoes around the inside of the tube. After that, everything goes quiet except the wind outside and my engine in front of me. The vehicles didn't follow me in here, but that doesn't make me feel any safer. I'm sure they have something planned for me in this steel trap. They could have easily forced me to crash into some debris out in the storm. Maybe they didn't want to damage my car. Maybe they're like the Mozzies, taking people alive so they can eat them.

I get the canteen from under the seat and take a couple gulps, washing the rest of the dust down my throat. I pour some in my hand for Jaw, who laps it up in seconds.

It's dark in here. And cramped. Worse than any palace hallway. I don't know what to do. Sitting here feels like a bad idea, but I don't want to leave my car. It's the only shred of cover I have against an attack, and all my weapons are ready. Beside me, Jaw whines.

"Should have taken the long way around, yeah?" I mutter.

I turn the car around to face the tunnel entrance. At least this way I can watch for any activity. I may be on their turf, but they have to come in here to get me first. At the far end, yellow light flickers in through the raging storm. I slide my seat back and move to the floor, peeking up from behind the cover of the dashboard. Jaw stirs anxiously in his seat, sniffing the stale air. There is no gunfire, no foreign engines, nothing. I don't know what to expect.

"What is your name?"

The deep, strong voice echoes through the tunnel, overpowering the noise of the sandstorm. Sounds like it's coming from the entrance, but I don't see anything through the dust. A quick scan of the rest of the tunnel reveals nothing. Where are they?

"And don't try anything," the booming voice continues. "You are cornered, outnumbered, and outgunned. Just cooperate."


	2. Chapter 2

I adjust my grip on the pistol, trying to stay calm. Jaw whines and desperately searches for the source of the voice. His lips twitch, threatening to pull back at any moment to reveal deadly teeth.

"Name's Roman," I answer, struggling to raise my voice over the racket outside. "Aesircide. What's yours?"

“Fancy title, lad. I've got one, too.” The disembodied voice speaks professionally - flat like Three, but with an intentional formality instead of a lack of emotion. It’s deeper than the Cyclop’s voice, too, and less gravelly. “My name is Cold Blood. Cold Blood the Defector.”

I raise an eyebrow. He's right, it's fancy - and intimidating.

“You and I share a common enemy," Cold Blood the Defector continues. “You are also very lucky. Your friend bought you a get-through-the-Graveyard-free card. Now please, don't shoot. I'm coming in alone and unarmed. I just want to talk face to face.”

Too good to be true. A trap. But the curiosity about my ‘friend’ pushes past the paranoia, and I find myself reaching for the door handle. Jaw jumps over the center console and follows me onto the ground. I grab the end of the dog’s leash with my free hand, pulling him close to me behind the partial cover of the open door. Don't need Jaw tearing this guy's throat out until I know for sure he's a threat.

Still no sign of the mysterious Cold Blood. He’s waiting for a response - a sign that I’m listening. Or better yet, that I’m open to talking. I clear my throat and level the pistol at the tunnel mouth.

"What friend?" I call.

The question echoes along the chamber and fades away without a reply. The storm howls without interruption for several moments. Did Cold Blood leave? Or worse, is he preparing to fire on me? Jaw tugs at his leash, restless. I don’t blame him. Been in a lot of bad situations, but negotiating while trapped in a metal tube in dangerous tribal lands during a sandstorm is probably one of the worst.

Jaw lets out a low growl, and the hair on his back stands up. An enormous, humanoid form suddenly takes shape in the tunnel entrance. The Defector steps through the sand as if it were a veil, unfazed by the screaming wind and biting sand. As he approaches, I begin to realize just how monstrous this man is; he dwarfs me by a startling amount, both in height and build. Cold Blood may be unarmed, but the grotesquely huge muscles visible through his black shirt suggest he doesn’t need a weapon to crush a man’s skull. My adrenaline surges, fighting against the fear in my gut. I aim directly at his broad chest, wondering if a gun would even be able to stop him. The Defector looks like he could brush the bullets off his shirt after he finished bashing my head in.

Focus. This guy is still just a man. A gigantic, terrifying man, but still flesh and blood - I think. Cold Blood’s face is hidden beneath a grey scarf wrapped around his head. Over his eyes sits a pair of red goggles whose lenses glisten like beady, insectile eyes. No way to get a read on him.

The Defector stops several paces from my car, giving me some breathing room. With legs as long as his, though, I’m sure the monster could close the gap in only a couple strides. He stands there, motionless and calm, seemingly unconcerned with the handgun aimed at him. I can’t tell if it’s an act or if he truly doesn’t fear being shot.

Cold Blood pulls down part of the scarf, revealing a mouth full of bright, white teeth filed to razor-sharp points. He reminds me of the Crocodiles back in Eden, but he seems to have better manners than they did. Thanks to the giant’s long-sleeved shirt and scarf, I can’t see if he has any piercings or scars like the soldiers of Eden. The only thing I know for sure is that he could snap me in half in he wanted to.

“A Handmaiden,” the Defector replies at last. “I did not ask her name - didn’t care. Wouldn’t stop talkin’ ‘bout you, though.”

My stomach jumps. Trace was here.

"She's a talker, yeah," I reply, narrowing my eyes at the monstrous man. We're not exactly face to face; he towers above me, and I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. "What did you do with her?"

“I didn’t do anything to her. She left. Pissing off the false Goddess by fleeing, she knew I would do anything to scorn the bitch. So I allowed her to pass unharmed. She also requested the same of you.”

Cold Blood gazes down at me, and I get the unnerving sense that he’s sizing me up from behind those goggles. Judging me.

“You got a title since then, though,” he adds. “You aren’t just blowing steam, are you, little man?”

"Don't have any reason to make it up, and you don't seem to be intimidated by it, anyway," I reply, slightly irritated at being called 'little man.' I'm the one pointing the gun and asking the questions, and yet it feels like Cold Blood is in charge of the entire situation. “Got a job in Eden. Targets turned out to be a group led by an Asgardian called Vates. My dog and I killed the bastard. Got the title when I got back, but the Handmaiden was already gone."

I wonder what Trace would think of it. Aesircide. It's not every day someone manages to kill an Asgardian, so I've been told. But I don't get the idea she'd be impressed by killing - not if her complaints about other Road Warriors were genuine.

"How'd she know I'd be coming this way?" 

“Dunno,” the Defector says, sounding bored. “I think she thought you were gonna follow her.”

The giant lifts his goggles to peer at me with horribly bloodshot eyes. Sure enough, he looks like he’s trying to figure me out.

“What are you planning?” Cold Blood asks bluntly. “I didn't actually expect to see a man chase a Handmaiden through hostile territory. Do you want her dead? Or does the hardened Asgardian slayer have a soft spot for the young girl?”

"Don't want her dead.” The reply comes out harsh and defensive. "I need to find her before someone kills her. That simple."

I struggle to look the Defector in the eye. It was a lot easier when he had his goggles on. Seeing his eyes doesn't do anything to make the giant look more human or less ferocious. Definitely don't want to make an enemy of him unless I have to.

"You said we have a common enemy," I venture. "Who's that?"

The red-eyed, razor-toothed man blinks in surprise.

“Anuket, obviously.” The statement sounds more like a question, like he’s wondering how I could be so clueless. “You don’t just try to rescue a fugitive and recipient of Anuket’s wrath without being her enemy.”

I say nothing, but a puzzled look crosses my face. Anuket, Goddess of Eden. I figured she was Cold Blood’s foe by the way he talked about her. But my enemy, too? The Defector licks his teeth and narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“Why are you really here, Aesircide?”

"Told you, I need to find that Handmaiden," I insist. "It's not a rescue - not if I bring her back to Anuket. The Goddess will give me whatever I want as payment. Everyone in the Empire will be looking for the runaway soon, so I need to find her first if I want that reward."

Black and white, straight-forward, simple. Just another mission.

_You aren't like other Road Warriors I have met._

Trace's words echo in my mind. She was wrong, of course. I'm just like the rest of them. I fight, I kill, I do what I have to do, and I don't look back. Except… I do regret things. A lot of things. Those thoughts keep me awake at night and haunt my dreams when I manage to sleep. A wish from Anuket can't get rid of that. Nothing can. If I save Trace, if I don't deliver her to her death, it'll be one less thing to regret later. I'll be throwing my life away, sure, but I made that choice when I left Utopia. I am just like other Road Warriors, but the thing is, maybe I don't want to be. Maybe I want to be different. Maybe I don’t want another regret. She's the only one who ever saw that in me.

Cold Blood stares at me in silence, waiting for something - the truth, I guess. How come everyone I meet can read me so easily? I need to learn how to master Three’s blank face.

"And I… owe her an apology,” I continue hesitantly. “And she owes me reading lessons. Look, I'm not saying I have a 'soft spot' or any of that shit. I just need to find her before she does something stupid and gets herself killed. It's… important."

Cold Blood’s lips turn up in a grin. Between the damaged eyes and unnatural teeth, it may be the most unnerving gesture I’ve ever seen - even worse than Yale’s smile. It’s a terrifying sight, but at the same time, it doesn’t look sinister. The behemoth seems amused.

“You have no idea what you are doing, do you?” This time, the question sounds more like a statement. Cold Blood’s tone is almost friendly. “Listen, lad, it’s okay to have friends out here. You need them. You won’t get far without them. If this slave girl means so much to you, go find her and cut the devil-may care-act.”

The Defector’s grin morphs into a scowl as he reaches up to pull the scarf back over his mouth.

“But if she is your enemy, don’t pretend she is not. Destroy her, and don’t let it get to your head. I don’t care which way it is, but you are a poor liar. Either to me or yourself. Not sure which.” Cold Blood lowers the goggles over his eyes, which somehow makes him look more human. “You are young and inexperienced, little one. Also scared and confused. Don’t let any of that show. Those less merciful than myself would have jumped at the exposed weakness.”

The Defector falls silent and steps back from my car. I stare at him, unable to move or speak. His words hit me as hard as I imagine his body would if he charged at me. I can't even bring myself to get insulted over 'little one.' As for 'scared and confused,' he's right. I may be lying to myself about other things, but I can't deny the truth on that one. Cold Blood can see right through me.

I slowly lower my gun. My heart pounds in my chest. Maybe it's because of what he said. Maybe it's because he’s the biggest, most terrifying man I have ever seen. Probably both.

“I agreed to help ya,” Cold Blood adds as he turns toward the tunnel mouth. “I’ll guide you through the Grave. Follow me close. But this is a one-way ticket. If I see you here again, you will be treated just like everyone else.”

As he walks away, a word forms on my lips. It's the same word that was there when Trace left my room, the last time I saw her. I held it back then, convinced it wasn’t important. What if I had said that word? Maybe she would've come back, and I would've learned how to write my name - a useless skill, but better than spending my time being tormented by nightmares. But afterward, what then? That other Handmaiden said Trace had been planning to leave for a long time. Was she already prepared to leave that night? The things she said about giving me lessons if I came back to Eden for more work - were those all lies? Or… would she have stayed and waited for me if I hadn't ruined everything? These are the thoughts I've been avoiding: the idea that it might be my fault she's out here now.

Guilt. Regret. If only I'd said that word. Things might have turned out differently; maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess. But… I can try saying it now. It's worth a shot, yeah? There's one more thing I need to know.

"Wait!"

I hear the voice of a man trying so hard not to sound desperate and terrified. It belongs to me. I hate it, but there's no taking it back now.

"What did she say about me?" I call after the giant.

Cold Blood continues walking. Either he didn’t hear me or he doesn’t care. Then, just before he steps out into the angry sand, his booming voice echoes down the metal walls. 

“That she believes in you,” he says before disappearing into the storm.

The words swirl through my head long after they stop bouncing off the tunnel walls. They drown out everything. The roar of my car's engine, the storm raging outside - it's all just background noise.

Jaw and I get back in the car at some point. My body moves on its own; my brain is somewhere else. Even after what I said to her, she believes in me. No one has ever said that about me before - not even Simon or Cord. Sure, we all believed in each other, but we never said it. Looking back now, I wish I had. Maybe it would have helped Simon. Maybe Trace thinks it will help me.

I see her face in my mind. Smiling. Blue eyes wide with excitement. Then I see her as she looked when I yelled at her. Confused and sad. Tears in her eyes. How would she look if I told her I was taking her back to Eden? Heartbreak and fear. Maybe even hatred. I don’t think I want to see that.

Before I know it, I’m tearing out of the tube. I cover my lower face with my scarf again, wishing more than ever that I had goggles. Cold Blood definitely has the right idea. The sun struggles to shine through the wind-whipped sand, but it's still brighter out here than it was in the tunnel. I find myself feeling relieved. As much as I hate storms, I hate being stuck in cramped, dark places even more. The sounds of the world also return - brash and violent. But despite the noise, my head feels clearer now. Lighter.

I remember how I felt the night I learned about her disappearance. I knew what I wanted to do then. It wasn't until Anuket's offer that things started getting complicated and confusing. That’s when I started lying to myself, like Cold Blood said. Anuket can give me many things, but she can't give me what I felt when I was with Trace. Before I let Three get to me, before I drove her away, I was… not exactly happy, but the closest to happy I’ve been in a long time. I want that again. Cold Blood said it himself: I need friends. It may cost me, but I've gone through hell for less.

Trace believes in me. I can't let her down.


	3. Chapter 3

Outside the enormous tube of metal, the shape of a large vehicle directly ahead lies directly ahead - barely visible through the storm. I can't tell exactly what type of machine it is, but it looks massive enough to fit Cold Blood quite comfortably. The engine roars above the wind, just like Cold Blood's booming voice. I pull up behind as a bright, red light flares to life on top of the Defector's ride, making it easy to track through the storm. The vehicle moves forward, and I follow the light closely. The storm shows no signs of clearing up. Jaw cowers behind the passenger seat, nestled between scrap and supplies.

At first, it feels like I'm going back the way I came. I got so lost when the Defector's cronies were leading me that I'm not sure which direction is which. No other vehicles appear this time; Cold Blood leads me alone. I wonder what the Defector's people do to outsiders who don't have a free pass through the Graveyard. Based on the larger number of twisted, smashed vehicles out here, my guess is nothing very nice. Trace probably only made it through alive because she was recognizable as a Handmaiden. Did she know Cold Blood lived here? Does Anuket know? The Goddess doesn't seem like the type to welcome neighbors without knowing exactly who they are, but why doesn't she just wipe him out if they hate each other so much? If Cold Blood is a former Crocodile as I suspect, why doesn't Anuket put some kind of bounty on his head? Maybe she did once, but no one could bring the Defector down. The giant must have some powerful resources here if he can manage to keep the Goddess and her armies away. But since I don't plan on coming back here, I'll probably never know the details. Cold Blood's implied military power, his hatred of Anuket, and his apparent willingness to cooperate with Trace mean he could be a powerful ally if it ever comes to that. Hope I never need help on that scale. Besides, I'm not allowed back here once I leave.

After what feels like ages, the winds begin to slow. The sand gradually settles, revealing the world again. On the horizon ahead, the sun is just beginning to set. Cold Blood switches off the red light, and I finally get a better look at his ride: a large humvee with tinted windows. The exterior is made of large patches of mismatched metal. But unlike most cobbled-together vehicles, this one looks fairly durable. Some expert welding went into making this machine. Maybe Crocodiles are mechanics as well as warriors, or maybe some Blackthumbs have made their way here over time. Either way, Cold Blood's vehicle fits him - big, sturdy, intimidating. No little cars could push the humvee around like they did my ride.

We make our way up a tall, steep hill. The Defector stops at the peak, and I park beside him. Ahead, the land flattens out and reaches all the way to the horizon; the endless sand is interrupted only by a broken road. Looking back over my shoulder, I see a deep ravine full of scrap and the enormous ruins of a once mighty bridge. The crumbling structure towers over the rest of the Graveyard, stretching from one side of the valley to the other. That must have been what I saw before Cold Blood's men found me. Hard to believe something so massive was completely hidden just a few moments ago. Then again, nothing can beat the sheer power of the Wasteland when it's mad.

I wait for Cold Blood to get out of his vehicle and speak to me one last time. But instead, the giant turns his ride around and disappears down the slope, heading home. The Defector did what he said he would, and he doesn't seem like much of a talker - except for interrogating and probing for weaknesses. Maybe he just didn't want to listen to any more of my questions. I should have asked him about Khopesh coming through here when I had the chance, but I was so focused on Trace that it didn't cross my mind. Unless I run into the young Road Warrior in Ares, I might not know what happened to him for a long time - if I ever find out at all. I hope he gets that new arm.

Jaw climbs out of his hiding place and sits between the front seats, scanning the landscape for anything interesting. He gives up after a moment and curls up, resting his head on my leg with a sigh. I give him a half-smile as he falls asleep.

"We'll be there soon enough," I reassure the dog and myself.

I leave the Graveyard of Giants behind, feeling cautiously optimistic as I set out towards Ares once more. But that feeling quickly turns to boredom as the drive stretches on. Other than the occasional collapsed building from some pre-Fall civilization, the only thing to look at is sand. The sun eventually sets, plunging the Wasteland into dark and cold. I don't stop to sleep; can't risk being caught alone out here.

The night passes uneventfully. At dawn, I stop to top off my fuel, using up the last of my supply. It'll be enough to get me to Ares, and I should be able to buy more there with spice or scrap. Jaw and I share a can of old food and some water, relaxing in the shade of my vehicle before the world gets too hot. Then it's back to driving. Jaw stays awake this time, pressing his face up against the chicken wire in the passenger window to feel the breeze. The terrain begins to get rockier, and by the end of the day, we've completely left the sand behind. As night falls once again, the road becomes barely distinguishable from the grey stone all around it.

The sun rises on my second full day out of Eden, bathing the rocky landscape in warm light. The terrain becomes increasingly uneven as we continue; the road twists and weaves between hills and small cliffs formed in the stone. Jaw sniffs the air excitedly. Ares can't be far now.

Not long after noon, something appears on the horizon. I catch glimpses of it between each break in the natural stone walls. In the distance, jutting up between a cluster of smaller hills is an enormous mountain. A real mountain - not like Anuket's cliff set in the side of a plateau. As we get closer, details begin to come into view. Black smoke pours out of the mountain from several points at different elevations, but I don't see the light of any fires.

Speeding around yet another corner, I pass a road sign stuck into the ground. The piece of tarnished metal is decorated with a word I can't read, a crudely drawn picture of a building, and an arrow pointing down the road. I'm guessing the word is 'Ares.' The mountain is very close now, towering over the rest of the landscape. Several scrap buildings perch on platforms that cling to the steep rock. I've seen these types of structures among cliffs before, but never so many in one place. Clusters of buildings are connected with railways, and plumes of dark smoke rise from the center of each group of structures. The black clouds rise up past a peak that seems to touch the sky. I've never seen anything but clouds reach that high before.

As I stare up at the mass of stone, it suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea what I'm getting into. I know nothing about the city, its ruler, or its customs. I didn't know much about Eden, either, but at least I had Three to guide me a little. I only hope whoever rules Ares is more benevolent than Anuket. But I doubt it. Doesn't pay to be nice in the Wasteland.

Jaw looks up at the mountain, panting and wagging his tail.

"Almost there, bud," I say with a small smile.

Around a final bend in the road, a man-made wall comes into view. I press the brakes a little, slowing my approach. The barrier is made of lengths of chain link fence, stones, and various pieces of scrap. This makeshift blockade stretches far into the distance in both directions before curving to wrap around the other side of the mountain. Looking down the length, I see vehicles moving along the base of the wall. High above, people walk back and forth along a platform at the top of the barrier. Patrols.

My road leads to a large, stone building set in the middle of the wall. Beside it, two men stand before a chain link gate covered in chains and gears. These guards have deformed and sunburnt faces. They carry crossbows on their hips and wear typical, cobbled-together armor - but with fewer spikes and rat skulls than normal. What sets them apart from most Wasteland scum is their mohawks: tall, well-groomed, and dyed bright red. The guards do not draw their weapons at the sight of me. One stands motionless while the other holds up a large, red sign with a white word written across it. Doesn't take any reading skills to know what that means.

I brake to a halt, and the man without a sign approaches my driver side window. This guard has a foggy left eye and a rather large growth on his neck. Half-life, just like the Blackthumbs in Eden. He's a little older than Khopesh, I think, and much taller.

"Greetings, traveler," the mohawked man rasps. "Welcome to the city of Ares. I have a few questions before you are permitted to pass. To start: what is your name, and are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Name's Roman. The Aesircide," I reply, peering out at the guard through the chicken wire. I'm still getting used to the whole title thing. It feels awkward, and I'm not sure if I want to flaunt a name I only earned through luck. But I figure it's best to be honest with the guards, especially after what Cold Blood said about me being a poor liar. "Here for business."

"Well, uh… Mister the Aesircide," the half-life addresses me, raising an eyebrow at the title. His voice is strained, and a look of pain flashes across his face whenever he speaks. "What's your trade? Or are you expected?"

"Looking for information. Got spice and scrap for trade." I tilt my head towards the back of my car, indicating the loot from Vates's Rig. "Don't think I'm expected."

I doubt Trace is waiting around for me to catch up. She's not stupid; she knows she needs to keep moving away from Eden. The runaway Handmaiden might have skipped Ares entirely or headed in another direction after leaving the Graveyard for all I know. I'll just have to find out.

"Very well, then," the guard whispers, satisfied. "You may carry on."

He motions toward the gate. His partner lowers the big, red sign and flips a lever on the side of the building. The gate slides slowly open with the sounds of rattling chains and grinding gears. I roll forward, stopping halfway through the entrance when the guard with the sign waves me down. This man looks much healthier than his companion; he has clear eyes and no visible growths. His nose is oddly bent, though - healed crooked after getting broken too many times.

"There are motels along the base districts for you to sleep and store your car. And dog, I guess," the young man informs me in a voice much clearer than his partner's. He points to a one-story, concrete building built into the side of a mountain. The face of the structure is lined with several garage doors, all closed.

"Thanks. Oh, uh, one more thing," I add. "Did a woman pass through here yesterday or today? Tan, dark hair, freckles. Blue eyes."

Both guards contort their reddened faces in thought.

"We did not, Mister Roman," the raspy-voiced man groans apologetically. "Haven't heard anything about any girl coming through - mostly just traders. The last few days have been pretty slow. Even if no one mentioned it to us, you could try some other gates."

"Fine," I mutter, nodding.

Guess I can't expect everyone to be as helpful as Cold Blood. He was terrifying, sure, but at least he had information. When we parted, I felt confident that I was going the right way, but now the doubts are beginning to creep into my mind. I don't know how many gates there are, but I don't think it's worth checking them all. If Trace came from the Graveyard, I don't see why she'd use a different gate. She might not have come here at all; maybe she avoided the city and headed straight for her destination - whatever it is. My best bet is going to the Historyman and asking him about her. That's who she's supposedly looking for, yeah? If nothing else, maybe he can tell me what the note says. I could have asked Cold Blood about that, but in my fear and confusion, I forgot all about it. Some bounty hunter I turned out to me.

The gate screeches shut behind me as I head for the motel. Beside the structure with its line of garage doors, various tunnels head deep into the rock. Elevators built out of pulleys and old construction equipment rise from the ground to disappear into crevices in the stone. People and mine carts scurry up and down the elevators and along the railways and, going in and coming out of the rock like ants. Seems the city of Ares isn't just built on the outside of the mou  
ntain, it's inside the peak itself.

I don't like the idea of going in a mountain. Hallways were bad enough, but now tunnels? I feel my muscles tense up just thinking about it. With any luck, I won't have to be here for too long. Jaw looks at me and whines. Maybe he can sense my impatience. Or he's just excited to get out of the car.

The set of dull orange doors of the motel look more secure than the cages, at least from the outside. Don't want someone trying to steal my car this time. As I pull up to the building, the door on the far right slowly squeaks open. A lifted car exits the garage and screams away from the mountain, heading for a gate to the north.

Another door opens, this time closer to me. A pair of grimy hands hoists the orange metal up to waist level, and a man ducks outside. He shuts the door behind him and approaches my car as I slow to a stop. This man is completely different from the guards. He's clad in denim overalls and not much else - no armor in sight, no visible weapons. The man's clothing and skin are rough and stained with oil. His face is almost completely hidden behind an unkempt, brown beard and even longer, dirtier hair.

"Hey, man," he calls in a voice muffled by his hair and whatever he's chewing on. His tone sounds friendly enough. "Need a room?"

"If it means a safe place to keep my car while I'm here, yeah. What's the price?"

"Three ounces of spice a night, or whatever you have that's equivalent." The motel keeper smacks his lips between phrases, continuing to chew on something. He squints at me between strands of greasy hair, looking skeptical. "What do ya got?"

"Spice. And plenty of scrap." I flick a hand over my shoulder, motioning to the stuff in the back. "Shouldn't be here more than a night if I can help it."

Depending on what I can dig up in the city before nightfall, I might even be able to leave sooner. I know I should probably sleep, but I don't want to fall farther behind Trace. Then again, I have to rest at some point, and it'd be safer to do it here than out in the Wasteland. Maybe a short nap later. We'll see. I stifle a yawn with one hand. It's been a long couple days, and it's not over yet. Jaw is wide awake, looking from windshield to window, trying to see everything at once. I wish I shared his enthusiasm.

"Wow, ya got a lot of junk, man. I'm surprised a scrawny guy like you can hold on to that much." The man whistles, sounding impressed. Then he spits on the ground and goes back to chewing. " Anyway, yeah, three ounces for a night. You can take room number three."

The motel keeper pulls out a large ring of keys and thumbs through them, mumbling to himself. While he searches for the right one, I reach into the back of my car and grab the container of spice from the box.

"Don't have a scoop or anything," I say, pulling down the chicken wire and holding out the container. I also don't know how much an ounce is, but I don't mention that. I'll just have to trust him.

The man finds the correct key and yanks it from the ring. Then he pulls a sock from the large front pocket on his overalls and holds it out. I begin pouring spice into the makeshift container.

"Yeah, that's fine," the bearded man says when the sock is about halfway full. "Perfect, that looks like three."

He stuffs his payment into the pocket and offers me the key. I take it, sliding the metal into my jacket before putting the spice away.

"We good?" the man asks after spitting again.

"Yeah, just got a question. You, uh, see a woman around here recently? Blue eyes, dark hair, tan, freckles." I wonder how many times I'll have to repeat my bare-bones description of Trace. It doesn't nearly do her justice, but it's simple and straight to the point.

"Nah, sorry, man. Besides, I charge for info like that." The man reaches into his pocket again, this time pulling out a small pad of paper and a very worn pen. "And what did ya say your name was again? Bookkeepin' purposes."

I gape at the paper and pen. If he can write, he can read, yeah? I'm pretty sure that's how it works.

"Uh, Roman," I say after a pause. I watch carefully as the man writes something down, and my heart beats a little faster. "Think you could do me a favor? I got this note, and I, uh, can't read it."

The man smiles and glances into the back of my car, eyeing up the scrap.

"Sure, man," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "It'll cost ya, though. What're you offerin'?"

"Uh… A quarter of what's in the back," I reply, hoping it'll be enough. Never been much good at trading. "Minus the stuff in the box."

"Holy shit, guy! You do not mess around," the attendant gasps, eyes going wide. Then they narrow, and he looks down at me suspiciously. "What is the note? Are you draggin' me into something?"

"Course not," I try to assure him, flashing a half-smile. I doubt it's very convincing, but it's the best I can do. "No one knows about this but me."

I reach down and pull the note from my boot. It's a little wrinkled probably doesn't smell too great, but it's otherwise intact. I scan the symbols one more time, as if merely being in the presence of someone who can read will suddenly make them clear to me. But they're still a mystery, so I give up and hold the note out to the man. The paper trembles, and I don't know if it's because of the breeze or because my hand is shaking.

The man stares at the fluttering note for a moment, unconvinced. He looks to me, then to the paper, then to the scrap in the car. Slowly, he reaches out and takes the note.

"I better not regret this," he warns.

The attendant looks the paper over several times, mouthing out sounds to himself over and over until he's comfortable enough to say them aloud. I keep my breathing steady, waiting. Finally, he clears his throat and recites the message.

"'I still think you are different, Roman. Victoria Temple.'"


	4. Chapter 4

_Victoria Temple._ My breath catches in my throat as the words sink in. I have a destination.

The motel manager shoots me a confused look, mouth half open and greasy eyebrows knitted together. He studies the note again as I steady my breathing.

"'Roman' is underlined," the oil-stained man says. Then he shakes his head. "This is nothin'. Meaningless. And you're tradin' a shit load of scrap for it? Are… are you messin' with me? You know I expect that scrap still."

"You'll get it," I reassure him, holding back a grin. If he knew how valuable this information is, he'd demand a lot more than a quarter of the metal in my car.

Despite how Trace responded when I snapped at her, the Handmaiden meant for _me_ to follow her all along. She decided to entrust me, a Road Warrior she'd only just met, with her secret destination. That was one hell of a risk - I'd call it stupid if I weren't so grateful for the clue. Trace must have known she'd be good as dead if I showed the note to anyone in Eden. Maybe she really does believe in me after all.

The manager steps aside as I exit the car. Jaw follows, racing around the vehicle before stopping to sniff the motel owner's stained boots. I stretch my legs, feeling energized despite days without sleep.

"So, uh, Victoria Temple," I say, taking back Trace's note and stuffing it into my boot. "Where is it?"

"I dunno, man," the bearded attendant replies with a shrug. His confused expression is gone, replaced by eagerness for his reward. "I've never heard of the place."

My good mood fades a little, but I try not to let it get to me. There are plenty of people in the city; _someone_ must have heard of Victoria Temple. Maybe the Historyman. They're supposed to know things, yeah?

"What about this city?" I ask as I start unloading the promised scrap. "First time here. Anything I should know?"

"Sure, man. I'll tell you anythin' ya want," he agrees. Apparently that kind of information is free - or he's too thrilled with this payment to care. "Name's Mudraker, by the way."

I nod a greeting, but Mudraker is too enamored by the scrap to notice. His eyes glisten as he flips to a new sheet in this notebook, scribbling something down every time I unload another part. Without pausing to think, he launches into what sounds like a heavily rehearsed stream of information:

"As you probably know, this is the city of Ares, controlled by the God of the same name and his Senate of Lead Shamans. City's main export is bullets and guns." Mudraker points a thumb over his shoulder. "The mountain houses the Mons Bullet Farm. Damn near everyone in this city lives, works, and dies in that hole. Sucks in there. I lucked out and managed to get control of this 'ere motel to house Road Warriors."

The scrapper pauses and squats down to examine a particularly interesting piece of metal. As he scribbles excitedly on his pad, I take a moment to process the information. The Senate thing surprises me. After so many encounters with tribes, towns, and cities ruled by a single leader, it's hard for me to imagine people working together to control something. Especially when that something is a Bullet Farm.

"If ya don't know," the motel keeper continues, his voice growing raspy from so much talking. "Road Warriors are welcome here to contribute to the Senate and other political shit - to give an outsider's perspective and to advise trade routes and tradin' laws on the Barbarian Council." He clears his throat and spits on the ground. "Which meets every ten days. If ya wanna attend, the next meetin' is in… two."

"Can I see Ares sooner? Or one of the… Shamans?" I ask, tossing the last of Mudraker's scrap onto the pile.

"Uh… I don't think so. Ares is incredibly private and not much for public appearances. And the Lead Shamans are too busy with other things, apparently, to entertain company - 'specially outsiders."

"What about a Historyman?"

Mudraker bites his lip and narrows his eyes, trying to remember something. "I think a Historyman runs a school in the city - to educate Shamans, mostly. But I ain't really sure. Never been there. And I dunno how he would feel about some stranger knockin' on his door."

It takes me a moment to remember what a 'school' is, but eventually it comes back to me. There was something like that in Utopia, but we just called it Mend's place. Simon explained the word to me the first time we saw a school bus turned into a rig. Cord thought it sounded stupid, like most of the things Simon said.

"Worth a shot," I say at last. "Where's the school?"

"Up," Mudraker replies, absorbed in note-taking.

I look at the mountain helplessly.

"Sorry," the scrapper mumbles, finally putting his notebook away. He points at the nearby lifts powered by hydraulics and pulleys. "Take one of the elevators up. Find a bar: the Harpy's Nest. It's pretty rough - mostly mercs, soldiers, Road Warriors. But you can probably find someone who can point ya towards the Historyman. But again, I dunno how willin' the students, Shamans, or Historyman will be to let in a lowly barbarian. It'll probably just be easier to wait till the next Council, man."

"Don't have time to wait."

"Whatever, man." He shrugs his oily shoulders. "You do your thing. If ya need help with anythin' else, come on back to ol' Mudraker. I think we could make great partners."

Even though I can't see most of his face through the hair and beard, I can tell that Mudraker is grinning. Either he's being sincere, or he's just happy I paid him a lot. Probably some of both.

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks," I say. "Been nice doing business with you."

Mudraker fetches a wheelbarrow for his scrap as I move my car to the room marked with a three. The place is simple: a grimy, concrete cube with nothing but a musty mattress and a toolbox inside. Jaw sniffs around while I prepare for the mountain. Knife sheathed, pistol and revolver holstered, rifle on my back, crossbow tucked away below the passenger seat. I swap my old, worn jacket for Vates's bloodstained coat. It's long and heavy, but it has more pockets - plenty of room for a canteen, spice, and extra ammo. The blood-hardened fur collar scratches against my face, but I don't mind. It isn't my blood. What bothers me is the stubble growing from my chin; I'll have to take care of that when I get the chance. Going clean shaven is an old habit from my Utopian days, but it's one of the few I don't mind keeping. A comfort thing, I guess.

With the room locked behind us, Jaw and I head down the length of the motel. A few doors down, Mudraker is busy meticulously organizing his scrap. Seems I've made his day - a fair trade for such an important clue about Trace.

Next to the motel, elevators hiss and rattle. I step onto one of the small, rusty platforms, gripping Jaw's leash firmly so he doesn't try to jump off. A metal pedestal with a control panel on top stands near a guardrail partly covered in peeling yellow paint. Don't need to read to know what the button with the up arrow means. A short, metallic note blares from unseen speakers as the platform lurches to life. With the clanging of chains and the hissing of hydraulic pumps, the elevator moves slowly upwards.

As we ascend, I peer over the exterior wall. Several guards stroll across the top of the barrier; I can see there signature red mohawks even from this distance. Gates divide the wall into many segments, each with its own building and an extra pair of soldiers. Must have taken a lot of time, scrap, and manpower to build all this. I wonder what took longer - Ares's machinery or Eden's stone carvings. Only the best for the Gods, yeah?

The lift climbs higher than clifftop palace of East Eden - higher than I've ever been before. Feels strange being this far off the ground but still in the open air. Back in Eden, the highest points were surrounded by stairs or walls. Everything was stable and solid. Here, gusts of hot air rock the small platform as it dangles from the side of the mountain. The machinery grinds so loudly that I'm sure something is going to give way at any moment. I grip the rail tightly, trying not to think about what would happen if the platform fell. Jaw looks even more uncomfortable, nuzzling up close to my leg for stability.

Eventually, the elevator enters a vertical passage cut into the underside of a rocky overhang. The outside world vanishes, leaving me trapped in a dark, cramped shaft of stone. It's worse than Cold Blood's tunnel or Anuket's halls. The walls are so close that the edges of the platform scrape against them as the elevator sways. My body tenses up, ready to run, but there's nowhere to go but up.

At last, the platform grinds to a halt, and the shaft opens up into a horizontal hallway only slightly larger than the vertical one. Dim, electric lights flicker within metal cages set into the walls. From somewhere deeper in the rock, I hear the sounds of industry: metal on stone, hissing steam, heavy machinery, grunting workers. But not a single person in sight. I figured the city would be more crowded, but everyone must be working somewhere else. No time for them to visit the bar today.

Jaw lunges forward, thrilled to be on solid ground again. Another industrial boom echoes through the mountain, and the poor dog rushes back to my side, whining. The sight of another hallway makes me want to turn tail, too. I'm a Road Warrior - a man who's survived everything the Wastes have thrown at him so far - and yet a hall makes me want to run. It was never a problem for me in the narrow streets and corridors of Utopia, but that was before I started spending so much time in open spaces. Just another way the Wastes have fucked me up.

Focus. I step off the creaky platform and head into the mountain with Jaw at my heels. The hallway is carved rock, just like in Eden, but the stone here is a dark grey instead of tan. Pipes of various sizes run along the ceiling and floor, packed so closely together that the rock is barely visible. Jaw's toenails clack loudly against the tubes. Occasionally, blasts of steam shoot out of seams in the metalwork, making both of us jump.

Metal signs hang from rusted nails in the wall. One catches my eye: a yellow diamond with the rough depiction of a walking figure. A pre-Fall symbol, I think, but with some modifications. A comically oversized bottle has been painted in each of the figure's hands. Where the eyes would be, someone has scratched an X into the metal. A drunkard. We're on the right track.

We travel deeper into Ares's domain, following the repeated bar sign through twists in the hall, across open catwalks on the side of the mountain, and up winding staircases. I lose all sense of direction inside the mountain. When we're out in the open air, the sun's position helps me get my bearings, but once we're inside again, everything gets turned around. The entire mountain is a maze.

Eventually, we start running into people. Some are Road Warriors traveling alone or in small groups. All of them carry at least as many weapons as I do, and several are missing body parts. The prosthetic limbs seem decent; Khopesh should have no trouble getting a working arm here. The rest of the people are workers, judging by their soot-covered bodies and exhausted expressions. Many are half-lives with deformities and visible growths. They avert their eyes and shuffle past, none staring at me with awe like the half-lives of Eden or the Skids. They probably see plenty of Road Warriors here for the Council - or they're just too exhausted to care. I suppress a shudder at the thought of a short life spent inside this rock, slowly deafened by machinery and choked by soot. No wonder Mudraker was grateful to get out and run the motel.

Jaw and I turn one last corner to find another elevator. This one is larger and looks much sturdier than the last, probably because it isn't constantly exposed to the elements. The sign is here again, nailed to the wall beside the shaft, but the area around the drunk man has been painted green. Must be close now.

"You ready?" I ask Jaw. He looks up at me and whines. Guess he doesn't like this place any more than I do.

The truck-sized platform carries us slowly upward inside a vertical shaft of roughly carved rock. This elevator doesn't grind so much, allowing me to hear other things as we climb higher: voices, stomping, and banging. All coming from above. I've been in a few bars on the rare occasions when Cord managed to convince Simon and me that it was a good idea, which it never was in the end. They're all the same: the noise, the smell, the relatively calm moment before another brawl breaks out. I doubt a Road Warrior bar located in the heart of a Bullet Farm will be any different. But as long as I can find just one person who knows about Victoria Temple or the Historyman, I'll be fine.

At the top, a large pair of steel doors open with the now familiar sounds of chains and gears. Jaw and I step into the Harpy's Nest. It's a large space, illuminated by natural sunlight that streams in through a huge, gaping hole where the bar's back wall should be. Fresh air blows in through the opening, along with the occasional wisp of black smoke from nearby vents. No guardrails or safety equipment block the cliff. How many drunk people have stumbled there and fallen to their deaths?

About twenty patrons occupy the Harpy's Nest - all Road Warriors or hired guns from the looks of them. Heavily armed people sit around tables, loudly and excitedly comparing Road War stories. A few argue while playing darts. Some sit at the bar, mumbling to each other while a redheaded bartender pours them another round. No one pays any attention as I cross to a vacant barstool. Jaw sits on the floor beside me, his head twitching as he tries to take in all the sights, smells, and sounds at once.

The bartender nods a greeting at me, her loose ponytail of long, tangled hair bouncing with the movement. This close, I see a large burn on the side of her face, stretching from her right cheek to the back of her head. No hair grows where the scar tissue has taken over the woman's scalp, and the skin around her right eye is pulled down where the flesh melted. The wound is still red, and I can't tell how old it is; a burn like that will never heal completely.

The other men get their drinks, and the bartender moves to stand directly across the bar from me, resting both arms on the countertop.

"What can I get you, cowboy?" she asks with the slightest hint of a harsh accent that I've never heard before.

"I'll, uh, have what they got," I say, twitching an elbow at the other men at the bar. "And some old food scraps if you got any. For my dog."

I pull the container of spice from my coat and offer it to her. It's lighter now, thanks to Yale and Mudraker, but I'm hoping it'll be enough to get me to Trace. I'm not really interested in drinking, but I figure maybe the bartender be more willing to give me information if I pay for something. Nothing is free around here, after all.

"You got it!" The bartender smiles widely. If that burn still hurts, she hides it will. "That'll be two ounces. Dog's scraps are on the house. Give me a moment, please."

She returns a moment later with a plate of fat and bits of meat. I set the food on the floor next to Jaw, who goes at it with nearly as much ferocity as he did Vates's throat.

"Ah, he's a cute little guy," the red-haired bartender says, peering over the bar to get a good look at Jaw. "Don't see lot of guys with pets around here."

Before I can think of a reply, the bartender turns around to fill a copper cup with liquid from an industrial barrel marked 'XXX.' With another grin, she slams the drink on the counter in front of me and holds up two fingers for two ounces. I nod and slide the spice container across the counter. As the redhead scoops out her payment, I take a cautious sip of the mysterious liquid. It has a strong but not completely unpleasant smell. As for the taste, it's far from the worst thing I've had, but it manages to make my eyes water a little. I take a couple more gulps before setting the cup down. I paid for it, so I might as well put it to good use.

"So, blondie, I haven't seen you in here before," the bartender says after collecting her payment. "What's your story?"

"Same as most. Trading work for supplies. But right now, I'm looking for someone." My voice gets a little quieter. "You know anything about Victoria Temple?"

"Sorry, never heard of it." The server shakes her head.

One of the people at the bar, a bald man with metal studs jutting out from his temples, slams his cup upside down on the counter. The bartender pours him another drink, talking to me over her shoulder as she works.

"I traveled a lot in my Road Warrior days," she says. "But the only temples I've seen are to Gods. And sometimes Max. The only one here is to Ares. Sasha could probably help you, though."

"Ann," the studded man interrupts. "No one wants to talk to that _freak_."

"He's a good man, Sly," Ann protests, setting the man's new drink down sharply in front of him. She turns back to me, but the man continues speaking.

"He's a _monster_ , unfit for anythin' but isolation an' a superiority complex," Sly says between gulps. "Stop pushin' the freak on new people."

"And stop talkin' to new people so much," his friend adds, adjusting a pair of cracked sunglasses on his broken nose. "You're not as hot as you used to be, and you're not getting tips. This poor lad just wants to get smashed; he deserves to do that in peace!"

The others at the bar nod and grunt in agreement.

"You're too drunk," Ann warns in a steely voice. "Mind your own business or I'll cut you off."

Sly and his friends grumble but go back to their drinks. The bartender sighs and brushes a drop of alcohol from her red tank top.

"Who's Sasha?" I ask, lowering my voice even more to avoid further upsetting the drunkards. "Think he'd really be able to help me out?"

"He's a Historyman. And a damn good one, too, even if people don't like him, " Ann says proudly but quietly. My eyes widen a little, but the bartender lowers her gaze to look at the countertop. "But he's… sick."

"Seen a lot of sick people. I can handle it." Even if he's a monster like Sly says, this Sasha is my best bet at getting information. It's a risk I'll have to take. "Where can I find him?"

"He doesn't really see people," Ann says, drawing circles on the counter with her finger. "He runs a school to train Lead Shamans and is an advisor to Ares."

"And he'll curse you!" cries the studded man, banging his fists on the bar. "He's a disease-spreading, careless sorcerer!"

"That's enough, Sly!" Ann shouts, visibly angry. "We are trying to have a conversation here. I'm sick of your eavesdropping - get out!"

A pause. I put a hand on my knife as tension fills the air. Sunglasses and the other men exchange nervous glances while Sly scowls at the bartender. Ann looks the studded man straight in the eye, refusing to back down.

"Fine," Sly grunts, finally giving up.

The drunkard throws his half-full cup behind the bar and stomps off toward the elevator with his cronies in tow. All of them give the bartender and me dirty looks as they go, and Ann returns their glares. As the steel doors close, I breathe a small sigh of relief. Then I look at Ann with respect, grateful that she managed to scare them off without a fight. Sounded like they were regulars; maybe they've tried to fight her before and lost. She mentioned that she used to be a Road Warrior, after all.

"I can take you to Sasha after my shift if you'd like," the bartender continues cheerfully once the troublemakers are gone. "There is no way he'd let just you in, but he and I have a history, and I may be able to get you in."

I nod, feeling cautiously optimistic. It'll be nice to have someone with me who knows the city, especially someone who knows how to fight.

"Oh! Where are my manners?" she adds, holding out her hand to me. "The name's Andromeda, but you can call me Ann."

"Fancy name."

I shake her hand. The motion is a little awkward since it's not something I do very often. People usually greet each other with nods or bullets. Ann's skin is rough and calloused from a lifetime of work - both out in the Wasteland and here in the mountain.

"Roman the Aesircide. But, uh, just Roman is fine. The dog is Jaw."

"It's nice to meet you, Roman." She lets go of my hand and leans across the bar to get another look at the dog. "And you, too, Jaw."

"When's your shift done?"

"Sunset." A new trio of Road Warriors enters the bar, distracting Ann for a moment. She moves to serve them as they sit down, glancing back at me over her shoulder. "Meet you back here?"

"Yeah, sure."

I down the rest of my drink and exit the Harpy's Nest with Jaw. After retracing our steps through the mountain maze, the two of us make it back to solid ground, fresh air, and blinding light. The sun is about halfway between noon and the horizon. What the hell am I supposed to do with all this free time? I could explore the mountain, but I've decided I hate it in there. Besides, I don't want to risk running into Sly.

A dune buggy made scrap is parked in front of the motel. As I approach, Mudraker slides out from underneath the rusted death trap and wipes his oily brow with an equally oily hand.

"Hey, man," the motel owner and apparent mechanic calls. "Find what you're looking for?"

"Maybe. Met someone who might be able to help me out."

He gives me a thumbs up as I unlock the door to my room and hoist it open. Even though my car takes up most of the space, it somehow makes me feel better about being in those cramped hallways. The vehicle means I can get out and drive away whenever I want. It's comforting.

That thought makes me remember another comfort. I dig around in the back of my car, eventually finding a detached rearview mirror that's cracked but not completely shattered. Perfect. My reflection stares back at me in the cracked glass, and I note the deepening purple under the eyes. Two days without sleep. Maybe I'll take a nap after I get rid of this damn stubble.

Short strands of red-blonde hair fall to the floor as I slide the blade of my knife across my jawline. I'm reminded of Three, who was shaving his face and humming to himself when I first met him. I wonder what he's doing now. Probably out on some job for Thor already. Whatever happens between Anuket and Thor, I hope Three's gambling die doesn't tell him to get involved - or worse, to take Anuket's side. I don't want to fight the Cyclops if the Goddess ever finds out I'm considering not returning Trace to her. But maybe that's what I deserve for not taking Three's advice to stay away from Handmaidens.

The sound of clanking metal draws me out of my thoughts. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mudraker fiddling with various pieces of scrap spread out on the hood of his buggy. I ignore him for a while, but eventually my curiosity gets the better of me.

"What're you working on?" I call to the mechanic between strokes of the knife.

"A bet. A buddy of mine in Ashtown bet me I couldn't build a workin' vehicle made only out of scrap in less than a hundred days," Mudraker says triumphantly. He points at me with a socket wrench. "And you, my man Roman, have set me ahead 'bout… thirty-five days."

"Glad I could help." It's a tough challenge - one that I don't think even most Road Warriors could pull off. We fix our rides if we can and steal another one when we need to.

"What about you, man?" Mudraker asks as he works. I can't tell if he's really interested or just keeping up the conversation as a courtesy to his guest. "What poor bastard did ya drag into your Asgardian-slayin' life?"

I hesitate, wondering how he found out about my title. Probably heard it from the guards. Just like in Eden, word travels fast here.

"Bartender of the Harpy's Nest," I reply. "Says she might be able to get me into the school. And I'm not dragging her into anything; she offered."

"Ah. She's a nice girl," the mechanic says, scratching his back with his wrench. "Scrappy, but nice."

"She mentioned that the Historyman is… sick, or something. You heard anything about that?"

"I really don't know. Word has it he's a 'Chosen of Ares,' just like the Lead Shamans. Diseased, deformed, poisoned bones. Mutants." Mudraker shrugs. "I've never met him, though. Just a rumor."

I don't reply, but Mudraker doesn't seem to mind. A Chosen of Ares? Why would a God surround himself with half-lives? The inner palace of Eden is full of people without defect, and Utopia was made up entirely of "perfection." If Vates is any indication, Thor's Asgardians are full-life warriors, not half-life fanatics. But inside this maze of a mountain are mutant teachers, a Council for Road Warriors, and a Senate. Ares the city is completely different from the others. So what is Ares the God like? With any luck, I'll never find out. All I have to do is meet the Historyman, get directions to Victoria Temple, and leave. Whatever 'history' Ann has with Sasha, I just hope it's enough to get me in.

Satisfied with the shave, I sheathe my knife and put the mirror away. Jaw yawns and I do the same. If I can get my information and leave tonight, it might be a long drive before I have a chance to sleep.

"Hey, think you can wake me up right before sunset?" I call to Mudraker. "I'm gonna try to get some shuteye in here."

"Sure thing!" The mechanic gives me another thumbs up.

I shut the door to room three and lie down on the mattress. Jaw curls up nearby and starts snoring. When I wake up, it'll be time to meet the Historyman. Whatever he is - a monster or a good man - I just hope he can help me out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading this story. Special thanks this week to a guest for leaving kudos.


	5. Chapter 5

Fine, corpse-colored sand buries me to the waist as I slog endlessly forward. Above, the sky glows pink and orange, but there is no sun. The sand stretches to the horizon, completely unbroken by structures, vehicles, landforms, or people. There is nothing out here - just me and endless silt. The empty atmosphere is dangerously relaxing, and my muscles strain with every sluggish step. Never tried stopping, but I somehow know if I'll sink if I do. But I can't keep this up forever. My movement slows slightly with every passing moment, and I feel the sand swallowing me grain by grain. How long can I last in this hellscape?

For the first time, I hear something: hollow wood bumping against hollow wood. Then the sound of stick snapping. I look to see a figure standing atop the silt beside me. The creature is horrifying: a living skeleton taller than anyone I have ever seen. It is human and non-human at the same time, disturbingly bent and twisted, with joints rotating in ways that bones were not meant to move. It has too many arms to count, all moving erratically and independently from one another. Sprouting from its misshapen skull are three different horns: goat, elk, antelope.

In my terror, I freeze. The sand swells upward, burying my abdomen, my chest, my shoulders. Struggling only makes me sink faster now. As the silt creeps up my neck, one of the creature's many arms stops its patternless motion. A three-fingered hand extends toward me, and I have no choice but to take it. The monster hoists me effortlessly out of the sand. The ground becomes solid beneath my feet.

I look up at the figure, grateful but still afraid. It stares back at me with hollow eyes, but it does not speak. Instead, the skeleton motions one of its arms behind me. I turn around to see an enormous staircase of bright, white marble. At the top stands Trace, clad in white, her piercing eyes and dark hair unmistakable. A sea of ragged figures writhes at the base of the stairs. The wretched claw at the staircase, trying desperately to climb up it. An invisible force keeps them down.

Eyes wide and questioning, I turn back to the skeletal figure. It simply nods in approval. I start sprinting towards the staircase, relieved that my journey is finally over. I push through the hordes of the poor and sick, make it to the stairs, and -

_Bang bang bang!_

"Wake up, man!"

My eyes open to see at a patched and dirty ceiling. I'm lying on the mattress with Jaw curled up at my feet. Outside, someone pounds on the garage door.

_Bang bang bang!_

"Nap's over!" the voice of Mudraker calls.

"All right, all right!" I shout back groggily.

I rub my eyes, tempted to go back to sleep and finish the dream. How does it end? Do I climb to the top, or am I stuck at the bottom with the rest? Do I make it to Trace? The white of the staircase and Trace's clothing is burned onto the inside of my eyelids. Haven't seen anything so bright since I left Utopia. I wonder if Victoria Temple will be like that. I wonder if Trace is there yet. Will she wait for me there, or will she move on and just expect me to follow? What if I never catch up with her?

The visions of Trace fade away, replaced with the horrific eye sockets of my skeletal savior. My eyes snap open, and I sit up. What the hell was that thing? I've seen plenty of skeletons in my life, but nothing like that. It was alive and dead at the same time. Guess Sly's warnings about the monster Historyman got to me. Is he really something like that?

A loud yawn from Jaw interrupts my thoughts. The dog stretches and heads for the door. He's as anxious as I am to get moving again, though I'm sure he'll be disappointed when he finds out we're just going to a meeting. But after this, we'll be back on the Road. Only question is whether or not we'll know which direction to turn the wheel.

Ann is waiting for me outside the Harpy's Nest. She leans against a wall beside the elevator, wearing a brown jacket and a wide, flat-brimmed hat. Jaw wags his tail, probably remembering the scraps she gave him earlier. She smiles at him before looking to me.

"Ready, cowboy?"

"Yeah." I nod.

Ann heads down a branching tunnel, running her fingers along the pipes in the wall. I follow close behind, not wanting to get lost in the maze without any signs to guide me.

"Have you ever met a Historyman?" Ann asks, running her fingers along pipes in the wall as she leads. "Or a Lead Shaman?"

"Used to know an old man who knew everything," I say, glad of the conversation to take my mind off the cramped confines of the hallway. "But no one ever called him a Historyman."

"What about a leper?"

"Lepers, yeah," I reply, narrowing my eyes at the back of Ann's hat. Is the Historyman a leper? Ann said Sasha was sick; Sly called him disease-spreading. I've only encountered lepers a couple times, but everyone in town warned me to stay far away from them. "Why?"

"Well, Anuket has a thing for sterile women, and Ares has a thing for lepers. The 'Chosen of Ares' are brought here - out of pity, I think - to be trained as Lead Shamans. They're scientists, writers, politicians. They answer only to Ares himself."

She falls silent as a small group of workers turns the corner. They step aside as we pass, and I see a couple of them nod at Ann. Once we're out of earshot, Ann speaks again.

"The Shamans are a mixed bunch. Some flaunt their power, some waste it on a half-half of alcohol and women, some take their position seriously. All of them… They're all hated."

"Why?"

"I don't know why. Maybe people are jealous of them - or scared."

"But you don't hate them, yeah?"

"Because I'm not afraid of them," Ann says nonchalantly. "They're just people; I'm not afraid of anyone. Besides, Sasha… He's a great man. Even if he won't admit it. He saved my life once; I owe him at least kindness."

I know how she feels, at least a little. Three saved my life, and that had some influence on my feelings towards him. But not everyone is like that. Kindness is a pretty rare thing in this world.

"Anyway," Ann continues, sounding embarrassed. "Sasha is a Chosen _and_ a Historyman. Not a Shaman exactly, but he trains them, so he might as well be. He's… an interesting character. You need to be patient with him. He'll test your patience, which is as he says: a virtue."

"Great," I say unenthusiastically.

I go silent, following Ann through the bowels of the mountain with increasing anxiety about meeting this Sasha. What if I get sick from him? What if he can't help me? What if he refuses because I'm not patient enough? The questions mount as Ann leads me up a spiral staircase with perfectly smooth stone walls.

"Almost there, any other questions?" she asks.

"Uh… Anything I should do to get him to like me? The information I need, it's… important. I can't mess this up."

Ann scratches her head under the hat. "If you are patient and honest with him, I'm sure you'll stay on his good side. He can be a bit… difficult, though."

At last, we reach the top of the stairs. A massive industrial door blocks the way.

"This is it," Ann says. "The Shaman monastery. You ready?"

I stare up at the door. For some reason, this meeting has me more nervous than meeting Anuket or fighting Vates. Maybe because there's more at stake. Maybe because of that dream. Maybe because it's more complicated than 'get a job' or 'kill or be killed.' But despite a million maybes, I can't back down now. I was so uncertain when I left Eden - so unwilling to make a decision. But it's different now. Trace believes in me, yeah?

"Ready."

Ann nods and presses a black button on the wall. There is a short, loud buzz. A moment later, a staticky voice comes through the door.

_"What?"_

"We would like to see Sasha," Ann replies.

_"Teacher's not seeing anybody. Go away."_

"Come on, please?" The bartender flutters her eyelashes at the door as if it were a person who could see her. "Can you just tell him Andromeda and her friend want to see him?"

The voice doesn't respond, but Ann cocks her head, waiting and listening. Then,

_"Fine. I will go ask."_

Ann leans in close to me. "You know, I have never actually been in here," she whispers excitedly. "I haven't seen Sasha in years. Never wanted to push my luck."

I shoot her a concerned look. She could have mentioned that sooner instead of making it sound like seeing Sasha would be no problem. Still, I'm grateful she decided to 'push her luck' just this once. Maybe she just needed an excuse.

"Think he'll be glad to see you?" I ask.

"I hope so. But I-"

_"He has agreed to see the both of you,"_ the voice interrupts.

The huge door slides up with a soft hum instead of a harsh grinding like the elevators or mining equipment. The bright orange glow of sunset floods the staircase, and I squint in the sudden light. A small plateau lies before us, open to the sky - a welcome sight after what feels like an eternity in the mountain's tunnels. To the right, the rock gives way to a sheer cliff. To the left, the peak of the mountain rises not so high overhead. We're almost on the very top of the city. About twenty small huts perch on the plateau, and a few people wander around the village. They all wear blue-grey rags over every inch of skin. Some walk with a limp, some are hunchbacked, some missing limbs. None appear healthy.

A skinny child about half my height steps out from beside the door. The kid is covered in the same rags as the others, and mirrored sunglasses hide the eyes. A necklace of spent shell casings hangs around the neck. The child stands with arms flat at his sides in a way that would look professional if I didn't spot the tension in the shoulders. This kid is nervous. The bandaged head moves up and down, studying us from head to toe like we're the first people to ever come here. Aside from the Shamans, maybe we are.

"Right this way," the child says, his voice cracking. "Teacher is just finishing a lesson."

I give the boy what I hope is an encouraging nod. I've never been good with kids, mostly because I've hardly ever been around them. Children were kept separate in Utopia until they became Citizens. And after we left the White City, we didn't have much reason to ever talk to any kids we came across. Most were feral or clinging to protective parents.

As the boy leads us in between the huts, I take in the sights. The school appears to be winding down for the night. People disappear into their well-constructed huts and don't come out. Everyone here looks to be in worse shape than the usual poor and desolate of any town or city. But at the same time, it seems a lot more civilized - no one fighting for scraps or trying to steal my belongings. Not so crowded, either. Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little afraid of catching some disease in here. But Ann doesn't seem worried, so I breathe the open air and try not to think about it too much.

"Here you are, guests," the boy says, stopping before a domed tent that appears to be made out of animal hide. A certain of ceramic beads serves as a door. "Teacher is just inside; he said you may enter when ready."

The child hurries away, and Ann and I exchange a glance. I feel as nervous as she looks.

"Well…" Ann gulps. "Ladies first."

She pushes aside the beads and heads into the tent with Jaw and me right behind her. A pleasant aroma floods my nostrils - one that seems strangely familiar. The air in the tent is warm thanks to a few dozen white candles and a small, central firepit full of glowing embers. Seated behind the pit are two figures with their backs to us. One is small - another skinny child. The other is nearly as thin and only slightly taller due to a hunched back. Both are dressed in bandages and light grey robes.

"You have nothing to fear, little one," the larger figure is saying in a soft, soothing voice. "Please, no more tears. No one can hurt you here. You are safe. Ares truly does love you."

The voice falls to a whisper. Ann is frozen, not sure what to do. I'm not any different. Even Jaw stands motionless, sniffing the scented air nervously.

"Okay? Good. You may go home."

With that, the child stands and dashes out the way we came in, leaving only the clattering of beads behind. The remaining figure does not move, and neither do we.

"Miss Andromeda. It has been long time." The Historyman's speech is slow and incredibly soft, as if he's incapable of being any louder. He has the same accent as Ann, only thicker.

"It has, Sasha," Ann breathes. "It is good to see you."

"Miss Andromeda, why do you sound so nervous?"

"It's just… good to see you are okay."

Sasha shakes his bandaged head. "We both know that isn't true, Miss Andromeda."

Ann's breath catches a little. I glance over and am surprised to see tears flowing down her face. She catches me looking and hurries to wipe them away with her palm.

"S-sorry, I thought I could hold it," she says, glancing between me and Sasha. "This is embarrassing."

"It is quite all right, Miss Andromeda. It is hard, I understand." Sasha continues to speak calmly, seemingly unaffected by the emotional reunion. "I understand you brought me guest?"

The Historyman stands slowly and turns to face us. His face is hidden behind a dented brass mask with no mouth. It has a small bump for a nose and rounded holes for the eyes. The metal has been sanded to make it smooth and to take away the shine.

Ann sniffles and wipes the last of the tears from her eyes. Sasha looks at me, waiting patiently.

"My name is Roman, uh… sir," I say, suddenly realizing I never asked Ann how to address him. He's not a god, but he's still a powerful man, and I'm trying to make a good impression here.

"It is pleasure to meet you, Mister Roman," the Historyman says in his mask-muffled voice. "There is no need to call me 'sir' if you don't want. Sasha is fine. No Gods, no masters. I am equal."

He shuffles around the firepit and approaches, extending a lanky hand. He is missing his last two fingers. My mouth goes drier than usual.

"Fear is not required, Mister Roman," Sasha says, gazing up at me with dark brown eyes. The left eye sits lower than the right, but the holes in the mask weren't cut to match that. "My illness is mine alone, it can't touch you."

I nod slowly and take his hand, shaking it carefully.

"Thanks for seeing me - er, uh, us," I say.

The limb feels like it could break with the slightest force. But when I try to pull away, the Historyman doesn't let go. He locks eyes with me and holds my gaze there for a long time. With only his eyes exposed, it's impossible to read Sasha's emotions. I thought Three was bad, but at least I could see his face. Sasha gives nothing away.

At last, the Historyman retracts his hand and steps back.

"Come. Please, sit," he says, slowly lowering himself to the ground and crisscrossing his boney legs.

Ann sits across from Sasha, and Jaw and I take our place next to her. It takes my muscles a moment to remember how to sit with my legs crossed that way. Last time I sat like this, it was with Simon and Cord. We used to sit on top of Cord's car some nights to "show the damn cold who's boss," as he would say. I think he just liked looking at the stars.

Now it's Sasha and Ann, strangers, sitting with me in the dim light. Sasha stares forward, and Ann has adopted a stoic, Road Warrior expression. Being with Sasha must take her back. The odd scent tugs at my own memory, but I still can't place it. I sit quietly, waiting for someone else to say something first. Patience, yeah?

The silence lasts for an uncomfortably long time. I can hear Sasha's shallow breathing from within his metallic mask. The shuffling of people and tent flaps outside has gone quiet. Inside, the orange glow of dying embers and dim candles casts shadows across Sasha's dull mask, revealing a few small, raised areas. It takes me a moment to recognize them as partially melted ammunition. The mask is made of bullets. I've seen masks like that before, but they usually belong to Warlords - shiny, sharp edges, covered in Warpaint. Sasha's mask is plain, smooth, calming.

"Sasha," Ann blurts out. "Roman here wanted to -"

She is cut off by a nearly silent shush from the Historyman.

"If he has question, he may ask himself."

So much for waiting for someone else to start. I feel like Sasha's reading me even when I'm not doing anything - like my silence is somehow telling him something about me. It sets me on edge, makes my fingers twitch, keeps my shoulders stiff. And all the time, he's figuring me out.

Patience and honesty. Right. I can handle those, yeah?

"I need to know where Victoria Temple is," I begin, looking Sasha in the eye as best I can. "I'm looking for… a friend. Got a note from her saying that's where she went. Or at least I think that's what it means."

"Do you still have this note?" Sasha asks.

"Uh… Yeah," I reply.

I pull the note out of my boot and look it over, taking some solace from the scribbles now that I know what they mean. Mudraker said my name was underlined. Sure enough, one of the patches of symbols has a line underneath. That's my name. It's… different than I expected, mostly because I didn't know what to expect. Now that I know what it says, I'm a little embarrassed to show the message to anyone else. It's the most personal thing anyone has ever said - er, written, I guess - to me. What if Sasha asks why Trace thinks I'm different? Guess I'll just have to be honest about that, too: I'm not really sure. She said something about how I talked differently. Didn't brag about killing people or anything like that. But now I have a title that brags for me. Maybe Trace will change her mind about me if - when - we meet again.

I hand the note to Sasha. The bent man gingerly unfolds the paper and examines it for several moments. Ann watches with wide, unwavering eyes. Despite having no personal stake in this mission, she seems just as eager as I do to hear the Historyman's response. I think she's just thrilled to be spending time with him.

Sasha makes a soft noise under his mask. A sigh? A hum? I can't tell. Satisfied, he hands the note back to me. Ann and I wait with held breath.

"Do you smell that, Mister Roman?" the Historyman asks.

I stare at him, taken aback by the change in subject. Beside me, Ann sighs softly. She knows what's going on. I need patience. Fine. I'll play along with this if I have to.

"Yeah." I nod. "Uh… What is it?"

"It is incense called nag champa. It has great spiritual importance to me. An ancient religious fragrance from a land far beyond the Salt flats. A land called India."

"How did you get it, Sasha?" Ann asks, pulling her knees close to her chest like a child. Her fascination with the story has completed replaced her curiosity about the note. "I thought no one has crossed the Salt flats since the world fell."

"The oil is recipe with origin in India. It has been rediscovered and recreated. The key ingredient, a flower, is only grown in Eden."

"Eden?" I echo in a tone that verges dangerously on hopeful. "Was she here? My friend?"

"This incense was traditionally used on holy pilgrimage to temples in far away land," Sasha continues, ignoring my question. "I have never completed such pilgrimage myself. I was… interrupted."

Sasha falls silent, Ann hangs her head sadly. Moments pass as I wonder what exactly happened to them out there. Just when I am ready to speak up, Sasha whispers:

"Your pilgrim was not here, but I know the way. You understand, yes?"

"Yes." I meet Sasha's dark brown eyes again, and the faint sense of hope grows stronger. My voice lowers to match his, though I'm not sure why. "You can tell me how to get there - to Victoria Temple - yeah?"

"No," Sasha mutters, shaking his head. The skeleton of a man leans in close to me. The skin around his eyes is just barely visible through the holes in the mask. The flesh rough, dry, and covered with black makeup. Sasha's lower eyelids sag to expose red, bloodshot interiors. "I can take you there. Not tell."

My impulse to lean away is completely overridden by his words. I freeze, glancing at Ann, whose jaw looks like it's about to hit the floor.

"You'd leave the city? What about Ares? How far away is this place?" I cut off my string of questions before I get too carried away. I sound just like Trace when she was asking me about my past.

"Yeah, Sash," Ann says. "You… you can't leave."

Sasha leans back and faces Ann. "My half-life is drawing to close, Miss Andromeda. Every day I feel my body weaken."

"Sash…" Ann manages to say before diving into him and burying her face in his bandaged neck. Sasha sits motionless for a moment before wrapping his arms around her. Despite what Sly and his Road Warriors said, Sasha doesn't seem like a monster. He's a little odd, yeah, but nothing like the freak they described. They've probably never met him - just heard rumors about lepers and got scared, like Ann said. The real Sasha is a frail half-life hoping to spend his final days fulfilling a dream. Nothing monstrous about that.

"My organs will begin to cease function soon. I am not long for this world," he says with perfect composure. "I have apprentice who will take over soon, anyway. I am positive Ares will grant leave."

Mend used to talk about his death sometimes, and how Simon would take over after he was gone. Simon always told him not to talk about it - that it was still a very long way off in the future. Simon pushed death away for as long as he could. And when he couldn't do that anymore, he ran from it, unleashing its doom on the people he left behind. We both did. It finally caught up with him in the end, but I'm still running. Sasha, on the other hand, sees death before him and stands his ground to face it.

"Now please tell, Mister Roman, which Handmaiden has fled?"

The Historyman's question pulls me out of my thoughts. How does he know I'm looking for a Handmaiden? Guess I should probably stop wondering about that shit at this point. Sasha just knows things. And what he doesn't know, he figures out pretty damn quick.

"Trace," I reply. It's good to hear her name out loud again, not just in my mind. It's solid - real. "Anuket put a huge bounty on her head. It'll go public soon - if it isn't already."

"That is unsettling, but we can work around," Sasha says.

The Historyman lets go of Ann and gently pushes her away. Then he reaches into his robe and pulls out a small pouch, which he hands to Ann. He closes her fingers around the object.

"Miss Andromeda, please find merchant from Eden and pay him this for early news. If he mentions Miss Trace, tell him Sasha has authorized to give him an artifact in exchange for withholding the news for as long as possible."

"Got it, Sash," Ann says confidently. Then she turns to me. "Roman, I want to help. I want to come with, too. I can fight, I can protect both of you - and Trace when we get her."

"You've already helped me," I begin. "Way more than I expected from anyone. I..."

"Don't make me leave Sasha again." It sounds like a plea, but she looks so seriously that it's almost a threat.

"Do you have a vehicle?"

"No, I sold it what seems like forever ago." Ann clutches the small bag so tightly I think it'll burst. "But I can contribute everything I have: spice, food, ammo."

"Miss Andromeda, this is very dangerous," Sasha says. "You have life here."

Ann shrugs. "It's over-rated here. I want to go on an adventure! I'll sell my bar; there's a merchant who has been pestering me about it for a long time. I'm not coming back. I'm staying with you, Sash."

The Historyman sighs. There's a good possibility Ann could die if we get into a fight. Then again, same goes for any of us. From what I've seen, she's capable of handling herself around pissed off Road Warriors. Sly and his gang didn't try to fight her for a reason. And with Sasha nearing death, this is probably the last time Ann will ever see him. The Historyman seems to mean a lot to her.

"Sasha's right," I say, my voice serious and my face grim. "You won't be safe out there. Ever. We can all do our best to protect each other, but there's never any guarantee it'll be enough."

I glance at Jaw, curled up and staring at my boots with sleepy eyes. If it weren't for him, I'd be dead right now. Next time, I might not be so lucky. Or I might fail to protect him. Somehow that seems even worse. And now I might have two other people to protect.

"It's not an adventure, yeah?" I continue before Ann can protest. "It's survival. You might last one day, you might last a thousand, but you'll spend that time knowing you could get killed at any moment. I tried to warn Trace about it, but she didn't listen. For all I know, she could be dead by now. Same thing could happen to you."

I pause, taking a deep breath of nag champa. Even if I manage to talk Ann down here, she'll probably just find some way to follow us later. I think Trace would like her.

"Your call," I finally say. "I won't stop you if this is really what you want."

"Good, because I was going to come anyway," Ann says, sticking her tongue out at me.

With that, she stands and marches out of the tent, leaving me alone with Sasha.

"We need to move fast," the Historyman says without a hint of stress in his voice. "I don't know how much time Ann can buy us. But first, we need to talk to Ares."


	6. Chapter 6

"We need to talk to Ares?” I repeat the Historyman’s words in surprise. “I thought he didn't talk to, uh… barbarians. Except at those meetings."

“Usually, yes,” Sasha says, getting to his feet and moving to the back of the tent. “But I am head advisor and Historyman. I have access to him at all time. Me and anyone I decide can see him.”

He pulls a small backpack out of a wooden trunk and stuffs some supplies inside. Then he returns to me, holding something small in both of his twisted hands.

“A gift,” he says, holding out a glass jar filled with brown oil. “Nag champa. When ink fades, you will still have her scent.”

"Thanks,” I say, standing up to take the fragile jar from Sasha’s equally fragile hands. I don’t know exactly what he means by that; maybe he thinks Jaw can use this to track Trace if she’s not at the Temple. Seems like a long shot.

Jaw gets up and heads for the tent's entrance, excited to be on the move again. I follow him, stretching out my legs as I go. It feels like there are little needles poking them, probably from sitting like that for so long. To my relief, the sensation begins to fade by the time I make it to the entrance. Behind me, Sasha puts on thick mittens and pulls up the hood of his robe, darkening his mask. As he joins me at the curtain of beads, I focus on his unnaturally curved back, his thin frame, his hobbling walk. Is he strong enough to travel?

“Please, after you,” Sasha says, pulling the beads aside.

Outside, the early night air is cool and refreshing, but it also seems empty. I was just starting to kind of enjoy the warm smell of the nag champa.

"What's Ares like?" I ask as we pass through the quiet school. "Is he like Anuket? She's the only God - er, Goddess - I've met."

“Ares is more like you than you know, Mister Roman.”

"How?" I ask, puzzled.

“You both get confused easily. The rest you’ll need to see for yourself.”

I frown at that. Not my fault this Historyman talks in circles. It took learning about nag champa, India, the Salt, recipes, flowers, Eden, and a pilgrimage before I finally got the information I asked for. If Sasha’s like that at every Senate meeting, maybe Ares will be relieved to see him go.

Sasha leads me to a small door in the rock. Above, the peak of the mountain blots out part of the starry sky. The Historyman materializes a small, iron key and unlocks the door. Inside is a spiral staircase much like the one Ann and I took to get up here. Electric lamps hang from white walls, lighting the way to the top of the mountain. For a leper with a twisted back, failing bodily functions, and who knows what else, Sasha seems to have no problem climbing the steep stairs. How many times does he come up here?

“This leads directly to Ares’s private chambers,” the Historyman says as we ascend.

"Anything I should know before we see him?" I ask, remembering asking Ann similar a similar question before meeting Sasha. “Any titles I have to use?"

“No. Just call him Ares. He likes his name to stand alone with no title or honorific. It will feel strange after Anuket and her rules, but Ares will respect you for it.”

Ares likes his name enough to name the whole city after himself, so maybe that makes up for the lack of titles. Either way, it's fine by me. One less thing to worry about. With any luck, I won't have to do much talking at all. Then again, Sasha might say something cryptic and then make me explain the rest to the God. Hopefully Ares or I won't get too confused by anything.

“Also, it should go without saying that you should not mention the Handmaiden,” Sasha adds. “No one can know where we are going.”

“Got it.”

An old traffic signal hangs on the wall near the top of the staircase. The yellow light is illuminated, giving Sasha’s mask a dull, golden glow. The remaining stairs lead directly to a steel trap door set in the ceiling. I hear several voices from above - some kind of argument.

“Here we go, Mister Roman,” Sasha says, pushing the door open with what strength he can muster.

The voices fall silent as Sasha and I emerge from the floor. A strong gust of night air whips at my jacket. We are on top of the mountain. Stars glitter all around, closer and more vibrant than I’ve ever seen them. The horizon seems so far away that I swear I could see the whole Wasteland. Jaw pulls at his leash, wanting to run around in the open after so long cooped up at meetings. But I hold the rope tightly, and he soon gives up with a whine.

A dozen golden faces are staring at us. The Shamans are sitting on the ground, dressed much more flamboyantly than the Historyman. Their blue robes are decorated with jewelry made of metal, gems, ceramic, and bullets. Their masks have been brightly polished, making them glow in the cold moonlight. Each mask sports carefully crafted facial features - nothing like Sasha’s humble chunk of brass. Even the Shamans’ bandages look fancier than the Historyman’s.

Standing behind the Senate is a man built like the mountain he stands on. Or at least I think he’s that big; the amount of armor, leather, and fur he wears could make a giant out of anyone. Just as terrifying as his size is the horned ram skull he wears over his face and head. The entire thing has been painted black, and the eye sockets are inlaid with mirrored, red glass. Tubes curl outward from the skull’s mouth and disappear behind the man’s back - a breathing device of some kind. Clean air in a place filled with smog. In man’s large hands is a six-foot spear with a shotgun attached beside the blade. This is Ares.

“Sasha?” one of the seated Shamans speaks up. “Can we help you?”

“I came to speak to Ares.”

The Senate members look to their God. He nods.

“Very well,” responds another Lead Shaman. “Speak.”

“Thank you, Mister Balkan,” Sasha says. For the first time, I hear a hint of emotion in his voice: annoyance. It disappears when he addresses the God. “Ares, as you know, I am approaching the end of my half-life. You once promised me leave as soon as I was ready.” He motions to me. “This Road Warrior has reached out to Miss Andromeda and myself and convinced us to journey. I would very much like to take my leave now. Mister Marcus will do fine as my replacement.”

“You interrupt this session to ask for a vacation, Sasha?” a different Shaman shouts.

“Respect your elder!” cries another.

“Mister Sasha has served this city well for years. He's entitled to this!”

“He isn't entitled to anything. He's a servant, just like us!”

Sasha stands quietly while the Senate bickers. Most of the Shamans defend him, but there are a few adamant that Sasha does not deserve to leave.

“Yes,” booms a deep, labored voice modified by the breathing apparatus. The argument ends immediately. Ares points his spear directly at me. “You. Speak.”

I see myself in Ares's lenses - one of many vaguely humanoid specks in a sea of red. As if I didn't feel puny enough already.

"Ares, my name is Roman the Aesircide,” I say, forcing the words out through a dry throat. “It's like Sasha said: I offered to take him and Ann into the Wastes. They'll be, uh, under my protection."

“Why them?” the God’s modified voice growls.

I'm not a good liar, but I don't necessarily have to lie. I just have to avoid bits and pieces of the truth, and then bend whatever's left just a little bit.

"They were… nice to me. Don’t see that a lot,” I say. It’s true enough. Sure, Ann was using me as an excuse to see Sasha, and Sasha is using me to get a ride to the Temple. But that’s nothing compared to the usual deals I have to make with spice, scrap, or blood. “Sometimes I like to return the favor - do something besides killing people. Keeps me sane."

The wind howls across the peak. Sasha says nothing. Does he think my response will convince the God? Is he testing me? Some of the Shamans look to Ares, but the rest keep their polished masks turned my way. Their faces are hidden, but I still feel them studying me. My shoulders tense up under the pressure of so many shaded eyes. I begin to see expressions in the polished faces: wariness, disdain, suspicion, anger. I blink, and the masks are blank again.

“Take care of him,” Ares finally responds, satisfied.

There are some murmurs among the Senate, but Ares silences them by stamping the butt of his spear loudly against the stone floor. I nod, holding back a sigh of relief. Sasha’s words to the child in his tent come back to me: Ares truly does love you. Maybe the God really cares about Sasha and the other lepers he takes in. Or maybe he just wants to surround himself with people too physically weak to seize power. But none of that really matters. In a few moments, I’ll be on my way to Victoria Temple.

“Ahem,” says one of the Shamans, actually speaking the word instead of clearing his throat. “Where were we?”

A loud wailing pierces the night air. I recognize the sound immediately: vehicle horns. Jaw barks and growls.

“Bollocks! What now?” a Lead Shaman shouts.

Another trap door, this one closer to Ares, slams open. A woman with a red mohawk emerges and bows to the God.

“Pardon me Ares, Senate,” the guard says. “But there is a small War Party at the wall from Midgard, led by an Asgardian.”

More murmuring from the Shamans, this time with the name Balkan being thrown around. Before the chatter gets out of control, Ares speaks:

“Not to worry. We have an Aesircide.”

My stomach twists.

"Not a suicidal one,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. My heart is beating louder than any War drum. “I'm not going out there alone."

“Of course not. You are going with me and Sasha.”

Sasha bows his head slightly. “It would be an honor, Ares.”

“After this, you are both free to go. Consider it a…“ The God trails off, looking for the right words.

“Right of passage?” a Shaman suggests.

“Good enough.”

The God pulls aside one of his furs to reveal an enormous belt with another animal skull for a buckle. He selects one of the many holstered handguns and fires it straight upward. A stream of pink light fills the sky. At the sight of the flare, the mohawked messenger nods and disappears through the trap door.

“Come,” Ares commands, waving Sasha and me to follow the guard.

No one says anything on the way down, and I’m too busy cursing my Asgardian-killer title to bother asking any questions. I thought using it might convince the God that I’m capable of protecting Sasha, but it’s only gotten me into more trouble. Vates is dead because of Jaw, not me. I should have died in that scrape, but I got lucky. The thought of facing another Asgardian makes my entire body feel cold. But I can’t say no - not when I’m so close to finding Trace.

Focus. Weapons are ready, car is fine, Jaw will be glad to see some action. I have to make sure Sasha doesn’t die before he can show me the way to Victoria Temple. It's Khopesh all over again. Except Khopesh wasn't a leper with one foot in the grave already. At least I'll get to see Ares in action. Not every day I get to see a God in a battle. What will this Asgardian be like? Are they all like Vates? No, he had the influence of Bishop, too. But this one is probably just as tough. He wouldn't be an Asgardian otherwise. Great.

We snake through hallways and down stairs, ramps, and elevators rather quickly. Seems Ares and his guards have an express route up and down the mountain. When we reach the base, a large garage opens up before us. Vehicles everywhere. Small pursuit machines and massive War Rigs - some even bigger than Vates’s. I gape at the amount of power parked in one room. My ride would look as cobbled-together as Mudraker’s scrap car compared to these engines. Still, my car is my car, and I prefer it to something unfamiliar.

“Can Ares keep them busy while I get my car?” I whisper to Sasha. He merely shakes his head. Guess I’ll have to drive something here.

My gaze lingers on the Rigs, which are intimidating even when they're not running. Maybe someday I'll drive something like that, but not this time. I need something closer to home - something I can handle in a fight without too much trouble. I turn my attention to the cars.

"We don't need a vehicle or even a firearm,” Ares says when he catches me looking.

My eyes narrow. Is the God planning to talk his way out of this? If the Asgardian brought a small War Party, he’s not here to chat. Ares doesn’t strike me as a negotiator, but I’ve been wrong about people before - more times that I like to admit. I watch with growing fear as the God walks past all of the vehicles and begins lifting a massive garage door at the end of the room. The sounds of War chants and roaring engines pour in from outside. Sasha shuffles forward to stand beside Ares.

“Shall you or I begin?” the Historyman asks, calmly folding his hands.

“I will,” Ares replies. “Engel has offended me for the last time.”

Sasha was wrong. He's the one who's similar to Ares, not me. They both like to say things that make no sense to anyone else, and then they don't feel like taking the time to explain what the hell is going on.

Jaw whines as half a dozen vehicles come into view outside, each packed with warriors.

"Me too, buddy," I mutter, drawing my pistol despite Ares’s command.

Ares strides outside with Sasha beside him and me in tow. The garage door slams closed behind us. Ahead, are six pursuit vehicles - no War Rigs or other massive machines, much to my relief. The warriors hanging from the rides wear little clothing, revealing their well-toned muscles and War scars. They all have different, odd haircuts dyed a variety of bright colors to match their skimpy clothing. They’re so different from Vates’s or his men - maybe a result of pure Midgardian training instead of whatever Bishop taught. A few of them lie dead alongside some of Ares’s guards. The surviving Midgardians are quiet; many seem to be silently praying near their fallen comrades. Ares’s soldiers stand at attention at the sight of their God, brandishing spears in clenched fists.

“Ares!” A voice cuts through the tense silence.

A man jumps from the top of a truck and marches angrily toward the God. His red hair is tightly knotted in a bun, and a long, braided mustache frames his scowling mouth. A bright, red cape is draped over his bare shoulders. The Asgardian halts a few paces from Ares and throws his two handaxes into the ground.

“I am sick of these games, Ares!” he shouts. “You cannot keep molesting Thor’s people like this! How far do you think your borders can extend?”

Ares doesn’t reply. Instead, in a motion so fast I almost miss it, the God reverses his grip on the shotgun-spear, lifts it over his shoulder, and hurls it towards the pursuit vehicles. The weapon crashes through a truck’s windshield and impales the driver before he can scream.

“As far as I can throw,” the God says.

The Asgardian’s face turns red with rage.

“That man did nothing to you! How dare you strike him down?” He inches closer to Ares, who remains silent.

“Your anger is blinding you, Engel,” Sasha says flatly. “Do not provoke -”

“Silence, you pest! I challenge the God of War himself to single combat.”

“I refuse,” Ares responds.

“You refuse?! You can’t refuse! Do you have no honor? If you aren’t going to fight like a man, I will have my men cut you down right n-”

Ares steps forward and savagely headbutts the Asgardian. Engel crumples to the ground beside his weapons.

“I AM A GOD!” Ares shouts, his voice unnaturally loud thanks to hidden microphones and amplifiers in his helmet. “I do not fight like a man, I fight like a God! Every week for months, you have sent another champion to me, who I struck down as a God. You have not earned the right to challenge me.”

Engel twitches on the ground, cradling his head in his hands. Only when Ares steps back does the Asgardian struggle to his feet.

“That is why you will be fought by a man,” Ares continues. “Fought until you can no longer stand. Defeated, you will not be granted the mercy of death. Humiliated, you will return to Thor, who will deny your honor as an Asgardian.”

My insides go cold. Before Ares even says it, I know what’s coming next.

“Aesircide, I seem to have dropped my spear. Would you be so kind as to humiliate this Asgardian and fetch it for me?”

There it is. My right of passage.

"Don't want me to kill him, yeah?" I say, stepping forward despite the fear curling in my gut. I have to do this. Victoria Temple is so close. Trace believes in me.

“Melee only - no guns,” Sasha replies. He then eyes Jaw, who is baring his teeth at the Asgardian. “And no help. The fight ends when one can no longer fight.”

This is some kind of showdown - or something like that. Cord used to bet on fights like this in some of the towns we visited. Cage fights. But those were all to the death. It was never about anything fancy like humiliation. What if I kill him by accident? What if he kills me?

Engel looks me over, ignoring the bleeding split in his forehead. When our eyes meet, his gaze is angry, determined, proud - not a hint of doubt there. But no scorn, either. If he’s upset at Ares for relegating the fight to me, he doesn’t show it. Three said people from Midgard value strength. Engel wants to see what kind of strength the Aesircide has.

The Asgardian rips his axes free from the dirt and walks back to his vehicles. He pulls the cape from his shoulders and tosses it to the ground. I shed my rifle, handguns, and coat, laying them carefully on the ground so as not to break the nag champa. Chill night air bites through my shirt, but the adrenaline has already begun to kick in, and I hardly feel the cold. Jaw's leash gets handed to Sasha, who holds it with his three-fingered hand. The dog stops his growling and looks at the Historyman with interest as I walk away.

Engel and I move to empty space between Ares and the Midgardian vehicles. The Asgardian is much more muscular than I am, but nowhere near Ares, the Crocodiles, or Coldblood. He’s closer to Three in build, but taller, and completely covered in scars. A man who has seen many battles. I grip my pickaxe and knife in white-knuckled hands, barely able to control my breathing as my heart pounds.

“That axe… Aesircide…” Engel mutters, putting the pieces together once he recognizes the weapon. “Does Vates still live?”

I shake my head. "Killed him two days ago."

The Midgardians murmur in awe and nervous excitement. None are tending to the dead man with the spear through his chest - probably out of fear of Ares. The God of War and the Historyman stand motionlessly behind me. Sasha whispers something, but I can’t make it out. Engel spits on the ground.

“Thank the Gods,” Engel whispers. “The Asgardians are in your debt.”

The words barely register as I prepare for the fight. Sounds like Vates really had gone rogue after all, but that doesn’t matter now. I finally steady my breathing, and the outside world fades away. There is only Engel, the weapons, and me.

“Are you ready, friend?” the Asgardian says, leveling his proud gaze at me. “I will give you the first move for exterminating that beast.”

We lock eyes. I take a deep breath of the crisp, night air. The Wasteland is completely silent.

Here we go.


	7. Chapter 7

A sudden lunge to the side, a quick slash at Engel's arm. But he's ready for me. The Asgardian dodges with an overly elaborate spin. His Midgardians go wild and cheer him on, but I block them out. No distractions. This fight is my entire world.

Engel keeps up his momentum to strike at my back. An axe whooshes through the air above my head as I duck just in time. My leg sweeps out to catch his, and the Asgardian hits the ground with a thud.

Before I can move in, Engel rolls onto his back and kicks upward, launching himself to his feet. But this time, I'm ready. I spring up from my crouch, targeting the Asgardian's arm with the pickaxe, just as Vates did with Khopesh just a couple days ago. And just like before, the weapon connects.

Engel screams. His arm goes limp, and he drops one axe. As I wrench the pickaxe free of his flesh, blood erupts from the wound. I stumble backward, wiping red from my eyes with the back of a hand.

The Asgardian screams again, this time in sheer rage. Just as my vision returns, Engel charges, swinging his remaining axe. I bring my weapon up to meet his, and the blades lock. We're only a hand's length apart now, glaring at each other, each straining to knock the other's weapon away. My arm starts to shake, but Engel keeps pushing forward. He's stronger than me.

My eyes go wide with panic. I slash frantically with the knife in my other hand. The blade cuts deep into the Asgardian's face, but he only roars and headbutts me, spewing spittle and blood onto my face. As I start to fall back, the Asgardian locks his good arm around my hip and goes low, hoisting me up and across his body in a suplex.

We twist violently to the ground. My side hits the dirt hard, knocking all the air from my lungs. Engel tries to hold me there, but his injured arm won't cooperate. I roll away, grunting at the stiffness in my back. My head rings from hitting the ground.

As both of us scramble to our feet, I know what I have to do. Vates was stronger than me, too. Faster than me. Angrier than me. I looked up at him with eyes full of fear, just like I'm looking at Engel now. I have to let that go. Calm. That's the only way.

I surge forward, teeth clenched, silent save for the crunching of pebbles under my boots. With all my might, I swing the broad, blunt side of the pickaxe at Engel's head. The weapon strikes home; there is a sickening crunch as the side of Engel's skull breaks.

At the same moment, white-hot pain sears through my gut. Screaming, I look down to see the Asgardian's axe slicing through my abdomen. Blood - _my_ blood - bursts from my flesh in the weapon's wake.

We fall to the ground again. Engel lands on top of me, and once again the air is forced from my chest. When my breathing returns, it's different. Every gasp feels like a knife in the gut. My stomach muscles spasm beneath the Asgardian's. Only the adrenaline fuel in my veins keeps me moving. With a desperate heave, I push Engel's scarred and muscled body off me. He doesn't fight back, doesn't move as I scramble away, doesn't make a sound. I blink through the stinging water in my eyes. The Asgardian lies there, eyes closed, face rapidly turning colors. Dead or unconscious, I can't tell. It doesn't matter. He's done.

Pain overrides any sense of relief at the victory. Never been hurt this bad before. I sheathe my knife with a shaking hand and press a palm to my blood-soaked shirt. Can't breathe. My mouth forms silent screams as I stagger to my feet. The spear. Have to get the spear. Then it's over.

I walk past Engel's warriors, gripping the pickaxe tightly in case they want to try something. No one moves. The engines are silent. As I climb onto the hood of the truck, yellow spots begin to appear before my eyes. They remind me of the Shamans' masks, staring at me. The Midgardians stare at me, too. Even the dead man with the spear through his torso stares at me, his face twisted in his final moment of shock. It takes both blood-slicked hands to rip the weapon from his chest. The sound of rending flesh and bones nearly makes me vomit.

Two Midgardians are carrying Engel's body away as I cross the makeshift arena again. Between the yellow spots in my vision, I catch another glimpse of the warrior's once proud face - purple, grossly misshapen, covered in blood. I feel sick. My whole body trembles. Hot blood runs down shaking legs. The God of War's spear gets heavier with each step.

"Mister Roman is losing a lot of blood, Ares," Sasha says from somewhere far away. "He is going to die if he doesn't get medical attention soon."

"Very well," Ares says, handing his spear off to the Historyman. When did he take the weapon from me? I can't remember. Can't see. Can't breathe.

The world goes black.


	8. Chapter 8

The darkness turns to grey fog. Sounds reach me first. In the distance, machinery and shouting. Nearby, swishing fabric, heavy bootsteps, strange breathing. Then the fog begins to clear, and I open my eyes. A stone wall covered in pipes is gliding by, but I'm not moving. I'm lying on my back. The wall is a ceiling. Someone is taking me somewhere.

Pain returns next. My abdomen erupts in fire. I gasp and writhe, trying to escape the burning, but pressure around my legs and back stops me from struggling. I squint through darkness and pain. A mass of fur towers over me, topped with a red-eyed ram skull. Two strong arms are wrapped under my back and legs. The God of War is carrying me. Where are we going? I open my mouth to ask, but nothing comes out. Pain consumes my senses, and everything fades away again.

The next time my eyes open, I see a different ceiling. This one is made of rusted metal, and it's not moving. I turn my head, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. My car is parked nearby with Jaw napping beside the front tire. Ann and Sasha are playing cards on the cracked cement floor. Sasha has exchanged his mitten for thin gloves, but other than that, the two of them look exactly the same as before. The Historyman slowly lays down a card, causing Ann to scowl and toss her hand onto the floor. She looks up in a huff and catches my eye.

"Hey there, cowboy!" she says, her frustration vanishing. "How are you feeling?"

"'M fine," I say. My throat feels drier than it's ever been in my life, which is saying something. "Where's m' stuff?"

"Over on the toolbox." Ann stands and walks right through the game area, kicking a few cards out of the way as she goes.

"That was quite unnecessary, Miss Andromeda." Sasha sighs as he picks up the cards. Ann sticks her tongue out at him.

I glance up at the tall, red toolbox. Resting on top of my jacket is the pickaxe, covered in more dried blood. Everything comes back to me then. I beat Engel the Asgardian. No car, no Jaw, no dumb luck. _I_ did that. And then…

"What happened?" I ask.

"You knocked an Asgardian the fuck out!" Ann says, punching the air. "He nicked you pretty good, though."

I try to sit up on the mattress, but a surge of pain makes me freeze. I look down to find my shirt gone. Clean bandages have been wrapped around my abdomen. Seems I've been in good hands.

"I believe Mister Roman means what happened after he passed out from blood loss and shock," Sasha says, shuffling the cards with little dexterity. "Ares was impressed and decided to save your life by carrying you to Organic. The Organic patched your wounds, and we brought you back here. This was about twelve hours ago."

I grimace through the pain and make my way to the toolbox. My jacket has been draped neatly over the back. In one of the pockets is the canteen, which I nearly empty in a few desperate gulps.

"Why was that Asgardian here?" I ask, wiping my mouth.

"Border disputes," Ann says. "Thor are Ares have a history of these problems."

"Mister Engel has been sending some of his champions to challenge Ares's force to single combat," Sasha says. "The city won every time, and Mister Engel decided to take matters into his own hands."

"Sasha thinks Ares was doubtful of your Aesircide title and used the Asgardian attack as an excuse to call you out. He gambled and lost. Good for you, though!" Ann grins and gives me two thumbs up.

"We now have permission to leave," the Historyman says. "And lot of supplies. Miss Ann liquidated her assets and bought us three days before news of Miss Trace spreads."

"That's great," I say sincerely. "We can put the scrap in the trunk to make more room for the supplies. What'd you get?"

Ann points to a collection of crates stacked behind my vehicle. Then she counts on her fingers and rattles off the goods: guzzoline, water, old military meals, blankets, ammo. I nod along as she lists each item

"That all, Sash?" Ann asks.

"No, we also got this." The Historyman gets up and reaches into the depths of his robes. He pulls out a small object and holds it up. A red needle moves inside a circle of metal. Then it stops, pointing in one direction. A compass.

"I still think it was a waste of spice," Ann huffs.

"How much did you spend on rails for your rifle?"

"Those are important!" protests Ann.

"Mhm…" Sasha hums.

"Both are important," I say.

Am I going to have to listen to them bicker during the whole trip? Maybe it won't be so bad. Reminds me a little of Simon and Cord. They used to fight about everything. I don't think Sasha and Ann's arguments will end in punching, though, so this is probably better.

"Sasha, you need a weapon, yeah?" I say, putting on my shirt. The blue fabric has been stained dark purple where the blood soaked through. "Got a revolver or a crossbow thing if you want."

"Unfortunately, Mister Roman, my hands fail me." The Historyman looks down at the misshapen fingers twisted around the compass. "However, I am clearly not here for physical abilities. Rest assured that Miss Andromeda is good enough shot to make up for my slack."

"And he's smart enough for the three of us," Ann says.

"Simply different skill set." The Historyman looks at me. "Both are important."

"Yeah," I say with a half-smile.

I think he's probably smarter than ten of me put together. And even though Sasha can't fight, at least we'll all be in the same vehicle. I won't have to chase him around to watch his back as I did with Khopesh. Or like I tried to do, anyway; it didn't end up working very well. But it'll be easier to keep an eye on everyone in close quarters. On the other hand, we could all die at once if someone gets a good enough hit on my car. But I think if we work together, there's at least a slim chance we'll make it.

_We're a team,_ as Three would say. What would the Cyclops think of my new companions? He'd probably get impatient with Sasha pretty fast, and I have no doubt he'd hate Ann's optimism. Guess I'll never know unless our paths cross on the way to Victoria Temple. But I doubt that. It's probably for the best; I don't really feel like hearing a lecture on why I'm an idiot for traveling with a leper and an ex-barkeeper.

I push away the thoughts of Three as Ann and I arrange the scrap and supplies in the car. He's not here, and I'm not letting him ruin another good mood.

At last, there's nothing left to do but get going. I lift up the garage door, letting in the warm dawn air. Then I face my teammates.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

"Yes, I am, Mister Roman."

"Shotgun!" Ann scrambles into the passenger seat with her rifle.

I pull the driver seat forward for Sasha. Jaw jumps in after him, and the Historyman presses himself against the supplies to make room for the dog.

"We need to go east," the Historyman says.

"Got it."

The engine roars to life, seeming louder than normal in the confined space. I smile and back the vehicle out into the open air where it belongs. We pass Mudraker, who is already up and working on his scrap vehicle. He gives me one last thumbs up as I speed toward the eastern gate.

At the wall, the red-haired guards wave us through as soon as they spot Sasha. Ares must've gotten the word out to them. I was half-expecting to see the God before we left, but he's nowhere in sight. Guess he isn't one for goodbyes. Fine by me. Ares saved my life, yeah, but he's also the one who made me almost lose it in the first place. I think I've had enough of Gods for now.

As we leave the mountain city of Ares behind, a sense of optimism makes my chest feel light. It's an odd feeling - one I'm not used to. In the space of one day, I've managed to stay alive, impress a God, get supplies, make allies, and keep a head start on the bounty. That's a damn good haul. The news will still spread in other places, but at least it'll be cut off here for a while. We can drive pretty damn far in three days.

Unlike the western side of the mountain, there are no canyons or rock walls in my way; it's a straight shot out into the open Wasteland. In the rearview mirror, I see Sasha studying the compass intently while Jaw yawns. Cans of food rattle, and guzzoline and water slosh in their containers with the rhythm of the Road. Ann puts her feet up on the dash and twirls a strand of messy, red hair around one finger.

"Hey, cowboy? How long you been doing this?"

"If you mean driving around the Wastes, maybe two thousand days, maybe more. Don't really keep track."

Ann lets out a long whistle. "That's a long time. I was on the Road for about half that. Never got a cool title, though."

"I've only been the Aesircide for a few days now."

"Ever think about settling down in a city somewhere?"

"No, don't like cities. Spent most of my life in one, but out here is where I belong now."

"You never know! I just came into town one day. Then I never left." Ann glances in the mirror. "Being near Sasha was just a plus."

"Is it nice to be out on the Road again?" the Historyman asks, his voice a muffled whisper behind the brass mask.

"Sure is!" Ann says. "Just feels right, you know?"

"Yeah," I say. "When you're not fighting for your life."

As much as I badmouth the Wasteland, at the end of the day, there's nowhere else I'd rather be. Beats being trapped between some walls, that's for sure. The more cities I visit, the more I realize that. Just a few days ago, I wondered if Eden would be like Utopia - if it would feel like the home I used to know. But it didn't. Not at all. And Ares was worse. Most people would kill - _do_ kill - to gain the safety of city walls. But the Wastes have twisted me into feeling more at home out in the open where I could die any second. It's madness. The sight of the open Road should terrify me. I even try to get other people to avoid it - people like Trace. Don't want them to be twisted like me. Or worse, like Simon or the Mozzies.

Ann snaps her fingers in front of my face, breaking my train of thoughts.

"Come on, cowboy. Pay attention."

"What? You say something?"

"I _said,_ so what's the plan? Drive there and shoot anyone along the way?" Ann makes a gun with her fingers and points it out the window.

"That's usually how things go," I reply.

"If I may," Sasha says. He pulls a small, roughly bound book from his sleeve and opens it to a marked page. "The latest scout reports have told us that the Rakshasa have den northwest of the Temple."

Ann's smile vanishes. She twists in her seat, focusing her full attention on Sasha.

"The what?" I ask.

Ann's voice is deadly serious. "Monsters."

Sasha remains as calm as ever. "They are near-feral tribe of murderers, bandits, slavers, and rapists. Very dangerous. Miss Andromeda and I have experienced them first hand."

"They captured and tortured Sasha for over a fortnight."

"They may become threat to us along our journey. I suggest they be avoided."

"They need to be slaughtered," Ann says, clenching a fist.

"No, Sasha's right," I say, trying not to think about what might be happening to Trace right now if she failed to sneak past them. "We can't go looking for trouble, yeah? If they have numbers and we get stopped, that's the end of us."

Ann hangs her head.

"I am sorry, Miss Andromeda." Sasha leans forward and places a gloved hand on Ann's shoulder. "I understand your frustration, but try to let your hatred go."

"How can you say that?" Ann snarls, whipping her head up to glare at the Historyman. Then she softens and grasps his hand. "They tortured you! Broke your bones, peeled your flesh, pulled your teeth and nails, and Gods know what else."

Sasha shakes his head. "With life short as mine, I have learned not to hold onto anger or revenge. Every minute counts, and right now that time is to be spent journeying to Victoria Temple."

Ann is quiet for a moment. Then she releases Sasha's hand. "You're right. That's what matters right now. I'm sorry to both of you."

"No, uh, that's all right," I say. Heartfelt moments aren't exactly my specialty.

I glance up at the mirror, eyeing Sasha with growing admiration. I don't envy him his half-life or the shit he's been through, but I wish I had his mindset. He's so focused, so calm. I'm always letting my thoughts wander off, always worrying, always doubting myself. I think most Road Warriors are like that. But Sasha doesn't let anything get to him. Maybe our time on the Road will change that about him. I hope not.

"What's the best way to avoid them?" I ask.

"Take wide berth around the known site," the Historyman says.

"That'd add a lot of time," Ann says.

"Yes," Sasha replies. "Our other option is to walk. Quieter, harder to spot."

"Can't leave my car behind," I say.

"I could scout!" Ann faces forward again and grips her rifle excitedly. "On foot. I have a scope, I can walk, I'd be hard to see. I can relay information, and we'll find a path as we go."

"Could work," Sasha says, flipping through his notebook. "But dangerous."

"What do you think, cowboy?"

Before I can reply, something appears on the horizon directly ahead.

"What's that?" I ask, easing up on the gas and tightening my grip on the wheel.

Ann leans forward, and Sasha looks up from his book. Jaw wakes up and pokes his head between the seats. The four of us peer at a dark speck on the horizon. No dust cloud. Whatever it is, it's not moving. Ann grabs her rifle and opens the passenger door. Before I know what's happening, she's standing up in the open air, bracing herself against the open door.

"Car," Ann calls. "Looks empty."

"A trap?" Sasha asks. I repeat the question so Ann can hear it.

"No. Nothing around for a vantage point or a trap. Just flat."

Sasha hums inquisitively behind his mask. Ann ducks back inside and shuts the door.

"Could be some good scrap," she says.

"It's not scrapped already?" I ask. "No way someone left a good ride out here."

"No, it isn't torn apart. Mostly intact. Must have gotten there recently."

"Starvation, dehydration, heat exhaustion?" Sasha suggests.

"Probably. Want to check it out, cowboy?" Ann's eyes gleam with excitement. "I'd say the risk is minimal."

"Fine," I say. "It's on the way."

In truth, it's got me curious - a feeling I almost forgot existed. _Curiosity killed the Road Warrior,_ Simon used to say. For some reason, I feel a little less paranoid with Ann and Sasha around. A little braver, too. That can't be a good thing.

The vehicle slowly comes into view: a small car covered in rust, burn scars, and patches of dark green paint. The patched up tires have gone flat, but wisps of smoke leak from the tailpipe. The car is still running.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To regular readers who have been keeping up as I post: Chapter 8 has been expanded with the events leading up to this chapter. Apologies for any confusion. I've decided to combine the second and third books, so there will be several more chapters in this story. I think it's a stronger decision to separate the books by arc rather than by major location (can you tell I'm new to writing?). I've also changed the name of this book to Historyman to better reflect the story. Stay tuned.

Before I bring my vehicle to a complete stop, Ann leaps outside and takes off toward the green car. Jaw jumps over the seat and races after her.

"Stay close to me," I tell Sasha.

I park the car and hurry after Ann and Jaw, pistol and pickaxe drawn. Sasha struggles to keep up; he limps and shuffles through loose sand. Ahead, Ann nears the abandoned vehicle and raises her rifle. The green car's engine coughs and sputters on its last drops of guzzoline.

"Hey, you!" Ann aims her firearm at the driver window.

Jaw growls. The redheaded Road Warrior pulls the door open as Sasha and I catch up. Huddled on the floor of the car is a man. Ann drags him roughly from the car and tosses him to the ground. The stranger is shirtless, exposing a skeletal frame. His black skin is dry, cracked, and blistered from sun exposure. He groans but doesn't move.

"Are their others?" Ann asks.

The corpse of a man mumbles something incoherent.

"Stay focused! Are there others?"

"N-no… Wa-water?" The man looks up in Ann's direction with foggy, sightless eyes. A beard caked in dirt, dry blood, and vomit hangs from his chin. Like his car, this man is barely alive.

"Fine."

Ann pulls a canteen from her belt and pours its contents into the man's open mouth. He coughs and wheezes. Jaw stops snarling and moves in close to sniff the man's cracked hands.

"Sorry, wanderer. Can't be too careful. Here, get up." Ann extends a hand. The man finds her arm and struggles to his feet. "What do they call you?"

"I… don' re'mber."

"This your car?"

"Yes."

"How'd you get way out here?"

As the man struggles to form words, Sasha steps forward and grabs his blistered arm. The stranger winces but doesn't pull away. The Historyman turns the limb over and examines it through the eye holes in his brass mask.

"How long have you been out here, Mister… sir?" the Historyman asks.

"Lon'… lon' time."

Sasha moves closer to inspect the man's burnt chest. "You're dying. You are covered head to toe in partial and full thickness burns, your corneas have been fried by the sun, your muscles are atrophied, and you are severely dehydrated, sir."

"Think he already knows that," I say. "Can we help him?"

Sasha starts to say something, but the dying man drops to his knees. He shakes his head when the Historyman tries to help him back up. Ann slings the rifle over her shoulder and climbs into the green car to loot the man's things before he's even dead. Her time as a bartender hasn't dulled any of her Road Warrior instincts. As I turn to join her, the dying stranger points a cracked, shaking finger toward me.

"I am a dead man," he rasps. "Bu' you… you… you can save all o' us."

I frown and look to Sasha. The Historyman tilts his head to listen. The dying man takes a deep, quavering breath.

"I pray to the Combustion Angel. I say, 'Deliver unto us a great Warrior. Give us Max!'" His voice cracks as he tries to shout. "The Angel of Combustion did say, 'You must wait in silence, Warrior, and Max shall come to you.' So I sat, I sat here and waited, stared into the sun in all its might. I di' not eat, I di' not sleep, I di' not drink. Jus' sat and waited. And now here you are, Max, here to save us from the Skald."

Memories of Vates's final words resurface. _Bring order to the Wastes. Max has been reincarnated and returned to us._ The words of a dying madman, nothing more. This isn't any different. Three said Max wasn't real, anyway. Still, this man's words have me curious, just like Vates's did - but only after I'd already killed him.

"What's the Skald?" I ask.

"One of the twins. Left lon'… lon' ago, far away, across… the Great… White." He collapses onto his side. His wheezes turn to weak, dry sobs. Blood drips from his mouth and nose. "Now Skald is very… very… angry."

"Don't strain yourself, sir," Sasha says. "You are clearly suffering from internal bleeding."

The man spits blood and a tooth into the sand. Jaw whines nervously. In the green car, Ann kills the sputtering engine and peers out from the driver seat.

"The Skald is comin'," the stranger says. "Comin' to burn all who dwell in the Wastes here to the ground. To get… get…"

He convulses. Sasha tries to hold him still but lacks the strength. Ann rushes over to help, and together we pin the dying man to the ground. Blood pours from his mouth, and his foggy eyes roll back in his head. He reaches toward me and gasps, sputters, tries to form words. I lean in close. Between blood-choked coughs, his final words reach my ear:

"To get revenge on his brother's murderer."

The spasms stop. Sasha pulls off one a gloves and reaches forward with a bandaged, three-fingered hand. He presses two fingers to the man's wrist. "Gone."

I stare at the corpse. Never seen someone die like that before. Normally they're already dead when I arrive, or I shoot them myself. But this man gave up the last of his strength to tell me something. I should never have asked.

"Any of that mean anything to you?" I ask. "Or was it as crazy as it sounded?"

"There is nothing crazy about dying man trying to grasp onto the only thing he knows," Sasha says as he closes the stranger's eyelids. "For this man, it was Church of Combustion and Mister Max Rockatansky the Road Warrior, who he thought you were."

"Yeah, you made his last moment nice, at least," Ann says. She rises and returns to the abandoned vehicle. "Gave him hope."

"That is very true, Miss Andromeda. As for the Skald, he is Asgardian who left with a band of Warriors loyal to him across the Salt Flats years ago. He has not been heard from since."

"Wait, he actually exists?" Ann asks. "I thought he was just a ghost story."

"Oh no, he very much exists. Ares used to speak of him often. One of Thor's greatest Warriors until he went rogue. And Mister Roman has met his brother, who was too small to travel with him across the Salt when he left."

"Who, Engel? Or…" A pit opens in my stomach. Get revenge on his brother's murderer. "Shit. Don't tell me Vates was his brother."

"If I didn't, I would be lying, Mister Roman."

I rub my eyelids. How did Sasha know about Vates and me? No one asked me which Asgardian I killed when I called myself the Aesircide. Word must have traveled fast from Eden. Or maybe they recognized Vates's axe as Engel did. Three didn't think any Asgardians would come after me for killing Vates, but if Skald also went rogue, there's no telling what he might do if he's still alive.

"He's coming after me?" I ask. "Why the hell hasn't anyone mentioned him before?"

"There is nothing to worry about," Sasha says. "No one who goes across Salt comes back. The Skald is most likely deceased."

"Sorry to interrupt boys, but I found something cool!" Ann calls.

We join her at the abandoned car. Sasha remains as calm as ever, but I scan the horizon over and over for trouble. No matter what the Historyman says, there's the possibility that Skald lives.

Inside the dead man's vehicle, Ann points to a grey box screwed to the top of the dashboard. The device has a small screen of cracked glass surrounded by black dials and knobs. Hanging from the machine by a coiled cord is a smaller box with a speaker grill and more buttons.

"This guy had a radio." Ann twists one of the dials. Static crackles from the machine. "And it still works!"

"Fascinating," Sasha says.

I tear my eyes from the horizon to focus on Ann's discovery. "Never seen a working one before. You know how to use it?"

"Yes, I do, Mister Roman."

The Historyman produces a screwdriver from the sleeve of his robe and gets to work on the screws with his twisted fingers. Ann tries to help, but Sasha politely shoos her away. She shrugs and moves to search the trunk.

"This man must have been Road Warrior if he needed that type of long-term communication," Sasha says. "What an interesting man."

"Not all Road Warriors have radios," I say. "Most of us work alone."

"There are still some who try to pick up the mantle of MFP. But they aren't nearly as united or as uniform in skill as they once were. Our nameless Road Warrior must have just been one of small handful trying to do some good out here. Poor soul."

"Met someone a few days who said he was MFP. Name was Three. Said he was an officer."

"One of the originals. He is only one who still works, although he is much more of hired gun than the MFP originally intended. The other two are Mister Fetch and Mister Bishop. Mister Fetch settled in Ashtown, where he is personal bounty hunter for the God Naga."

"You ever meet Naga, Sash'?" Ann asks.

"Yes, I have. Ares requested I accompany him to one of Naga's games in Ashtown. It was about what you'd expect: revolting, gory, fickle. The stories are true."

"Damn shame."

"What happened to Bishop?" I ask.

"Who knows? You don't hear much about him," Ann says. "There are a lot of stories about Fetch, though. And that Three guy is generally considered a washed up old hack."

I shake my head. "Not Three. He saved my life. Killed a whole camp of Mozzies to do it. And the next day, he took on a trailer full of Vates's fanatics by himself."

"Interesting," Sasha says. "But he's still getting old and out of prime. Being a Road Warrior is young man's job, and Mister Three is at least thrice my age. Washed up? Perhaps not. But getting slower and less efficient? Confirmable based on his past deeds."

"It does take a lot of skill to even last that long, though," Ann says. "Damn, I would have loved to see him when he was young."

"He's still got plenty of fight in him," I insist.

"Let people talk, Mister Roman. You know what they say about me and Miss Andromeda, but I don't think you believe them, either. Our actions will be louder than any rumor."

What kind of rumors are people spreading about me? Until recently, I haven't been on anyone's radar. Just been moving from town to town, finding jobs, getting paid, and hitting the Road again. Eden was supposed to be no different, but Vates fucked everything up. Now I'm an Asgardian-killer who's attracted the attention of two Gods. My days of being a small-time Road Warrior might be over.

Sasha frees the radio and lifts it from the dash. He runs a gloved hand over the dials and tunes the machine to different frequencies. Ann squeals.

"Find something?" I ask.

"Oh boy, did I!" She straightens and holds up a bottle of amber-colored liquid.

Sasha looks up and sighs. "Is that pre-Fall liquor?"

"Rum! Alcohol is a lot like me - it gets better with age. So this will be amazing."

"It is probably worth more in trade than it is in consumption."

"How dare you?" Ann cradles the bottle in her arms like a newborn. "This is the most important discovery of my life. Except you, of course. And…" She glances between me and the rum. "Nope, sorry, Roman."

"That's all right," I say with a half-smile. "Just, uh, hold off drinking it till we get to the Temple, yeah?"

Ann sticks out her tongue. Sasha returns his attention to the radio with another sigh, and I check the engine. V6 like the one in my ride. Busted from lack of care. The dead man may have been a Road Warrior at one time, but he must have let his vehicle go to shit when he lost his mind. Too bad; Ann could have had her own vehicle if this thing were salvageable. But then again, we'd have to split my fuel between two machines, and there's the risk that Ann would drive off. I don't think Sasha would want to leave me behind, but I'm not so sure about the redheaded Road Warrior. She apologized earlier, but if she sees an opportunity to get in a scrape with the Rakshasa, I think she'll take it anyway. Revenge is a hard thing to shake.

_Get revenge on his brother's murderer._ Sasha said the blind man wasn't crazy. Does that mean what he said was true? Are there other people like him out here? Does the entire Cult of Max think that someone is going to save the Wasteland? I've never cared what cultists think, but I don't want anyone getting the idea that I'm the hero they've been waiting for. No way. I've got my own problems. But if this Skald is alive, if he returns from the Salt, will he want revenge on me? I barely managed to kill Vates. I never wanted to be the Aesircide in the first place. I sure as hell won't survive a fight with another rogue Asgardian, especially one who managed to survive the Salt.

Jaw growls, and my stomach twists. I study the horizon in all directions. Nothing. Jaw growls again, his ears perked up toward the north. I strain my half-hearing. The growl of distant motors, the hollering of War Boys. An instant later, a dust cloud appears on the northeast horizon.

"War Party!" I shout.


	10. Chapter 10

"Fuck!" Ann scrambles out of the trunk. "Sasha, get in the car!"

The dust cloud draws closer. Jaw and I race back to my vehicle while Ann hurries Sasha along as fast as his skeletal legs can carry him. The engine growls. The Historyman climbs into the back with his radio and Jaw, and Ann peers through her scope from the passenger seat.

"Ashtown," she says. "Small."

"Who is leading?" Sasha asks.

"Looks like… Captain Thruster. He doesn't have his Rig, but his War Boys are unmistakable."

Relief passes through my chest. That blind Road Warrior was wrong; it's not Skald coming for me.

"Mister Roman, we need to run," the Historyman says. "We don't want to be in Ashtown War Party's path."

"Floor it and hope they don't think we're important," Ann says.

"Got it."

Adrenaline kicks back in. I twist the wheel, and we speed southeast. The dead Road Warrior and his green car disappear in a cloud of dust behind us.

Ann braces her door open and keeps an eye on the War Party. In the back, Sasha soothes Jaw. I press the pedal to the floor and steady my breathing.

Ann ducks inside and shuts her door. "We're clear. They're heading west, toward Ares."

The tension breaks. I exhale and turn the wheels east again.

Sasha peers after the shrinking dust cloud. "Wonder where they are going."

"Don't know," Ann replies. "Damn, I would've liked to shut Thruster down."

"What's he like?" I ask.

"He is nothing special," Sasha says. "Just another thug. Low seniority."

Ann snarls. "He's a selfish Warmonger who only knows how to kill innocents and steal from everyone. Just like all of Ashtown."

"They do raise different breed there."

"Ares has its problems, sure. But it isn't an anarchistic mosh pit like that place." Ann's expression brightens, and she holds up her rifle. "See what I did back there, cowboy? The scope on this thing is great. I'll be able to scout Rakshasa territory without ever getting too close to them. What do you think?"

"If it'll save us time… Fine. But no unnecessary risks, yeah?"

Ann pouts. "Where's the fun in that? Sash', how long until you need me out there?"

"Little more than day."

"Wake me up when we get there." Ann puts her feet up on the dash and nestles into her seat.

We continue east for the rest of the day. Ann sleeps with her arms wrapped around her rifle. Sasha rests his book on top of Jaw's head and scribbles on the pages. As the sun sets, crumbled stone changes to loose sand under the tires. We're far from the rocky terrain of Ares now.

Late into the night, the radio buzzes. I nearly jump out of my skin at the unexpected burst of static. Sasha calmly adjusts the knobs. A voice crackles through the speaker:

_"This is Tribune, seeking Cyclops. Over."_

My back straightens. I look over my shoulder at the radio. Sounds like Khopesh is right here, right in my car. Jaw sniffs at the machine and wags his tail. Does he recognize the voice, too?

_"This is Cyclops. Over."_

__

__

"As a thank you, I left you a present in Ares. Over."

"Unfortunately, I'm outside of Midgard taking a job for a disgraced Asgardian. Won't be near Ares for a long time. Over."

_"Well, it'll be waiting for you, Cyclops. Over."_

"Sounds like they're doing all right, yeah?" I crack a half-smile at Jaw. He slaps his tail against the Historyman's arm. "Thanks for getting that thing working, Sasha."

"Happy to help, Mister Roman. Would you like me to say anything to them?"

"Uh… Tell them… Tell them good luck."

"Very well." Sasha holds up the smaller device connected to the radio and clicks a button. "Tribune, Cyclops, this Brass Man, speaking on behalf of Aesircide. Over."

_"Roger,"_ Three replies.

_"Yo,"_ says Khopesh.

"He requested that I greet you, and may you have good graces in your endeavors. Godspeed. Over."

_"Thanks, Brass Man. Tell Aesircide the same. Over."_

__

__

_"Yeah, if either of you needs me, you know how to contact me. I got a cool new arm for all that scrap. Over."_

Three sighs over the speaker, already bored. _"That's great, man."_

"Your friends wish you luck, Mister Roman," Sasha reports. "And one of them has a robotic arm."

"Let's hope that one doesn't get ripped off as easily as the original."

"Aesircide hopes you get good use out of it. Over."

_"Thanks. I get to test it out on a job against some Thruster guy in the morning. Over."_

__

__

"Be careful what details you share about your job, Tribune. You never know who's listening. Over."

"You're paranoid, Cyclops. No one except Road Warriors has radios. Over."

_"You and Aesircide got them pretty easily. Over."_

"I have to agree with Cyclops, Tribune," Sasha says. "I have seen many young Road Warriors fall for not using radios with caution. Over."

_"I'll be fine. Over."_

Sasha sets aside the speaking device. Who else might have been listening to our chatter? The Lead Shamans in Ares, maybe? Other Road Warriors? Captain Thruster? No doubt Khopesh can take him down. The Tribune is young, but he survived Vates's Road War with one arm. Now that he has a replacement, he'll be unstoppable. Good for him. I just hope he doesn't mention my name or Trace's bounty to anyone in Ares. Might draw the attention of bounty hunters who haven't heard the news from merchants yet. Khopesh said he wouldn't go after the Handmaiden himself, but that doesn't mean he won't spread the word for Anuket.

In the rearview mirror, Sasha unravels the bandages on his forearms. Pale moonlight illuminates the leper's sickly grey flesh. Tattoos cover his exposed skin - writing I can't read. Maybe if I hadn't sent Trace away, I'd be able to make some sense of the markings. The Historyman tucks the old bandages away and replaces them with clean wrappings. Once he's done, Jaw rests his head in the Historyman's lap again. The redheaded Warrior snores softly in the passenger seat. I stifle a yawn with one icy hand.

"You should sleep soon, Mister Roman."

"I'm fine."

"We will be in Rakshasha territory tomorrow. You need to be well-rested."

"We're in a hurry."

"I know you worry about Miss Trace, Mister Roman, but I promise you that she is safe and that resting will not hinder us. In the grand scheme of things, few hours of immobility will mean almost nothing."

"What about you?"

"I have insomnia. Only sleep few hours each week."

"Sounds like hell."

Memories stir. Simon and Cord dead. An empty car. Alone for the first time in my life. No one was left to keep watch, so I just stayed awake. After three days, I couldn't think straight. Started seeing things. Simon appeared, feral as the day I shot him. He tried to make me do things I didn't want to do. Two days later, I passed out, and he returned to haunting my dreams. Does Sasha see things? Or has he grown accustomed to a half-life of insomnia? He's always so calm. Maybe his nightmares are worse than anything he could see while awake.

The Historyman leans forward and places a three-fingered hand on my shoulder. "The hound and I can keep watch while you and Miss Andromeda sleep. I will wake you at dawn. I would rather have rested man than rushed, tired man. Tired men make mistakes."

"Fine. If anyone can get Jaw to stay awake, it's you."

The base of a steep dune serves as our cover for the night. Not much, but better than sitting out in the open. Sasha drapes a blanket over Ann while I step outside to top off the guzzoline.

Tank full, weapons prepped, Sasha and Jaw on watch. Just a few hours, and I'll be wide awake the rest of the way to the Temple. Sasha's right: I can't afford to make mistakes. He and Ann are relying on me, and I'm so close to finding Trace.

Sasha hands me a blanket. "Sleep well, Mister Roman."

The night passes without incident. No nightmares to jolt me awake this time. Instead, warm sunlight and moisture on my face bring me back to consciousness. As my eyes adjust, Jaw's snout and tongue come into focus. His tail wags fast enough to make his entire body shake. I pull the scarf down and sputter when slobber finds its way into my mouth.

"Ugh, Jaw, c'mon." I wave the dog away. He leans back, but he doesn't try to bite my fingers off this time. Sasha must be a good influence on him.

"Good morning, Mister Roman."

Sasha sits on the ground with his back facing the car. Beside him, the brass mask lies in the sand. How did he get out of the car with both front seats occupied by sleeping Road Warriors?

"Forgive me, but I let you sleep in. I did some navigation calculations while you slept to discover that we got off course at some point last night. Easily correctable. Taking course corrections into account, we would reach Rakshasa territory about two hours before nightfall. Having two spare hours, I thought it best to let the two of you sleep."

As if on cue, Ann snores in the passenger seat. I wipe the rest of the dog drool from my face and open the door. Sasha puts his mask on and rises.

"I hope that isn't a problem, Mister Roman."

"Fine if it helps us out."

As I stretch the sleep from my body, pain flares up in my abdomen. I wince and press a gentle hand to the bloodstained shirt. At that moment, my stomach gurgles.

Ann wakes when Sasha gently shakes her arm. Jaw, Ann, and I devour a small breakfast, anxious to be on the move again. Sasha insists he doesn't need to eat for another day or two. How does this Historyman stay alive?

The tires kick up dust as we leave the makeshift camp behind. The three of us - mostly Ann - talk for the rest of the day. Some planning for the Rakshasa, but mostly friendly chatter. As the day passes, I catch myself smiling more than once. Even the occasional bickering between Ann and Sasha doesn't bother me. My fondest memories of Simon and Cord are the three of us talking during long drives. Peaceful moments between the blood and sand. It's nice not to be alone on the Road again. I just hope it doesn't end the same way as last time.

The sand turns whiter and grittier as the sun nears the western horizon. The first hints of salt sting my tongue and nostrils, and I sneeze. Pain seers through my abdomen at the sudden, violent moment. How bad is the damage down there? I haven't looked under the bandages yet, but the hit was enough to make me pass out fast. Must be pretty serious.

I point to my stomach. "How long will this take to heal?"

"I am afraid wounds like that will never fully heal, Mister Roman."

"He's right," Ann says. She prods at the burnt tissue on the side of her face and winces. No matter how long she's had the scar, the melted flesh still hurts.

"It will always be sensitive reminder of your victory over an Asgardian," the Historyman says. "It will be weeks before it seals itself, and then several more to scar over. Just pray it does not get infected. All the more reason to get to Miss Trace."

"Yeah," I reply. "She's good with that kind of stuff."

"So what's she like?" Ann asks.

"Blue eyes, dark skin and hair, freckles."

For once, Ann says nothing. When I glance her way, she stares at me with a look of impatience.

"What?" I ask.

The redheaded Road Warrior rolls her eyes. "And what else? She must be _something_ if she left Anuket."

"And, uh… She can read and write. She takes - er, took notes for Anuket."

"And?"

"And what? Only met her twice."

"Come on, she must have done something to get you so interested."

I frown and think back to that night. "She's… curious. Wanted to know about the Wasteland. I never thought she was planning to leave Eden, but she did. Went through the Graveyard of Giants alone. Braver than the Tribune. She even got Cold Blood to give me safe passage. Don't know how she knew I'd follow her. She's, uh… nice. That enough for you?"

"Wow, cowboy. I didn't take you for a shy, babbling love-drunk!" Ann bursts into laughter as my scowl deepens.

"Miss Andromeda, leave him alone. We are guests."

"Sorry, cowboy, I was just teasing. That was just kinda cute coming from a gruff Road Warrior. She must mean a _lot_ to you." Ann's goofy grin returns, and Sasha sighs. "Sorry, I'm starting again." She pantomimes zipping up her lips and throwing an imaginary key out the chicken wired window.

"If I may ask," Sasha says. "What do you hope to accomplish by finding her?"

"I, uh, owe her an apology. And I need to make sure no one drags her back to Anuket."

"She will be safe at the Temple. It is well-hidden so ferals don't find it."

"Or anyone else. You're the first person I met who'd even heard of it."

"As Historyman, I know where and how it is hidden."

"What about Trace?"

"I do not know how Miss Trace knows. While the Handmaidens are not Historymen - er, Historywomen - they have nearly same knowledge and perhaps more skill than Historymen. So it is no surprise she knows such secrets."

"Some crafty bitches," Ann says.

"You could say that."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"People say Eden has two rulers," Ann replies. "The Queen and the Handmaidens."

Sasha nods. "Neither acknowledging the other. Anuket gave up trying to put end to their scheming ages ago; she can't stop them, and no harm comes from their meddling. There is no way Anuket herself would even know the Temple exists - let alone what it is - without Historyman or Handmaiden telling her, which they would not do. I assume if Miss Trace is the one that left, then she is leader of the Handmaidens, which means we are chasing one of the most powerful individuals in the Wastes."

Three's words return: _Her Handmaidens put on a song and dance for us to lower our guard. We are just as much in enemy territory as we are out in the Wastes._ I believed the Cyclops; I was afraid I'd already fallen for the Handmaiden's act. I drove Trace away because of what the Three said. When she disappeared the next night, I didn't know what to think. I let Cold Blood talk me into trusting her again. _She believes in you._ What if that was all part of her plan? What if everything - the stitches, the smiles, the note - what if it's all part of some scheme?

"Shit," I mutter.

"You seem upset, Mister Roman."

"Yeah, cowboy, what's bothering you?"

"Was it something I said?" the young Historyman asks. He pulls out his book and holds a pen above the page, ready to take notes. "I struggle with people and sometimes accidentally upset them."

"Not your fault," I reply. "I… didn't know what she was really like. Trace. Thought she was… I don't know, an innocent. Three warned me about the Handmaidens more than once. And I listened just long enough to piss off Trace, and then went right back to thinking she was a friend. Fell for her act twice."

"I wouldn't count Miss Trace out just yet, Mister Roman."

"You saw that note. She said the same thing she said to me in Eden - that I wasn't like other Road Warriors. Maybe she meant I was the only one stupid enough to fall for her trick. Other Road Warriors don't go trusting people that easy."

"She may be powerful, but I doubt she is using you. Why would she be using _you_ of all people? Someone like Mister Three is much more useful. Hostile, skilled, years of experience. Miss Trace met you before you killed Mister Vates and became Aesircide, am I correct?"

"Yeah."

"She knew nothing about your skills in combat, your connections, or information you possess. You were wild card. As far as she knew, you could just as easily have tipped off Anuket to find her at the Temple. Even if Miss Trace knew your skill and needed you for unknown reason, she would not lead you on impromptu scavenger hunt. She would do something far more efficient, and you would most likely be with her already - as a puppet."

Sasha huffs behind his mask, winded from so many words. His skeletal frame shakes with each ragged exhale. Ann looks at him in concern, but the Historyman keeps his puffy, bloodshot eyes on the mirror. On me. I meet his gaze. The Historyman is studying me again.

"Handmaidens are not infallible. They make mistakes. One lost her life for engaging in sexual intercourse with Mister Three. What possible advantage could that have resulted in? Handmaidens use several of their assets for trade and power - but not their bodies."

The Historyman sits back and folds his hands in his lap. Ann and I exchange a confused glance.

"So… what?" Ann asks.

"Oh, I apologize. In conclusion: you, Mister Roman, are not a calculated asset or even a strategic risk. You are an irresponsible gamble."

"I don't think… That's not really… Let's just get to the Temple, yeah? Whatever Trace wants with me, I'll find out when we get there - if she's there."

Ann giggles. "You're really cute when you're flustered, cowboy. I can see why that girl likes you. You're kind of flustered a lot."

"Least I got something going for me, yeah?"

The redhead gives me two thumbs up. I don't feel any better about the whole thing, but it's the best Sasha and Ann can do. They say it's the thought that counts, yeah? They're trying to make me feel better, I think. No one's done that for me since Simon. And there's no point trying to argue with the Historyman; half the time I can barely keep up with what he's saying. Once we get past the Rakshasa threat, I'll have time to decide what to do. Until then, focus. Whether Trace is using me or not, it's too late to turn around. Sasha and Ann need my vehicle to get to the Temple. I can't just abandon them out here; the guilt would get to me like it got to Simon.

The Historyman flips through his book and studies a page in the dying light.

"This is it, Mister Roman," he says. "Are the two of you ready for this?"

"Ready."

"I sure am! It'll be fun! I'm a great scout. _And_ a great shot. I had to learn to be to make up for these noodle arms and body somehow. It can be hard to keep up with big, muscle-y men in the Road Warrior business."

"You appear to have done an excellent job making up for your lack of muscle mass, Miss Andromeda."

"Damn right! Best shot in this corner of the Wastes!"

"I would very much like to see that."

"Let's hope you don't have to," I say.

"Right," Ann replies. "But seriously, they wouldn't know what hit them!"

I park the car in the shadow of a small cliff. It's more like a pile of rocks half buried in the side of a dune, but it's the best cover we'll get out here. Sasha sits still, as calm and collected as ever. Ann looks ready to kick down the door and go cartwheeling all the way to the Rakshasa den.

I empty my coat pockets and hand the garment to Ann. "Take this. Use it to stay warm and to shield your scope. Anyone could see moonlight glinting off that thing for miles."

"Sure!" Ann drapes the coat over her shoulders and smiles. "I look pretty good in this."

"Looks better on you than it did on Vates." The thought of Ann standing on a massive War Rig surrounded by crows is amusing and terrifying at the same time. "Go over your plan again."

"Okay, I'm going to move out, see what the area is like, estimate how many guys and other threats they have, try and find a path through, come back, and feed you the information. That's when the real plan begins; for now, my job is scouting."

I nod. "If we hear gunshots, we're coming after you. Or if you take too long getting back."

"Got it." Ann opens the door.

"And be careful, yeah?"

"You know me, nothing but careful!" She flashes another grin and runs off into the night.

"Now we wait," Sasha says.

I sigh. "Spent enough time in here today. Gonna go up top for a while."

Now that we're not on the move, the inside of the car feels very small. I exit the car and climb onto the roof with my weapons, old jacket, and a blanket. Not a bad night. Cold, of course, but not windy. The stars and rising moon bathe the Wasteland in shades of blue and silver. Simon and Cord and I used to sit on the roof of the Warrior's car sometimes. Simon would point out groups of stars that were supposed to make pictures, but Cord and I never thought they looked at all like the things Simon said. My Utopian companion also said some of the bright specks were other worlds - like this one, but very far away. He always said crazy things, and he'd make fun of me for believing him. Gullible, he called me. Too trusting. No wonder Trace was able to get me to chase her all the way out here.

These days, I only climb on the roof to kill people or make repairs. Dents, old blood stains, and scrap metal patches cover the surface. This piece of metal has been the only thing between me and death more times than I can count, and it's got the scars to prove it. I have a growing collection of scars myself, but I'll probably die long before I get as many as the roof.

The Historyman clambers out of the car and shuffles toward the front end. Jaw tires of sniffing our hiding place and takes a seat by the front tire. The temperature continues to drop, and I pull the blanket around my shoulders. Nothing to do but wait, but I've never been much good at that. At least up here, I get a clear view of the horizon.

"You don't relax much, Mister Roman," Sasha says and climbs onto the hood. "Have faith in our scout."

"Faith won't do much if someone finds us here. I'll loosen up once we get to the Temple. Maybe."

Unless something really bad happens before we get there. Or things don't go well between me and Trace. Or a thousand other scenarios that would stop me from relaxing.

"Road Warriors are strange people. So brave to go out into the Wastes and face death for a slight chance at wealth and resources, but so paranoid that they can't seem to sit still."

"Part of the job."

Sasha chuckles - the first bit of laughter I've heard from him. "I very much like you, Mister Roman; I am glad we met."

I tear my eyes from the horizon. Sasha sits cross-legged on the hood and scrawls on a blank page in his book. Recording the day's events? Taking notes on what he's learned today? The Historyman has been studying me. What has he uncovered? Must not have been much since he still likes me. Ann likes me, too, I think. They asked what was bothering me, and they tried to make me feel better. For the first time in over a thousand days, I have people who care about me.

"I'm… glad we met, too."

"I hope my work can live on through you, Miss Andromeda, and Miss Trace after I am gone."

"Don't know how much use I'll be with your type of work."

"I think you'll surprise even yourself, Mister Roman."

Sasha includes Trace in his talk about the future, but for all we know, she might decide she wants nothing to do with us when we get to the Temple. The Historyman thinks Trace will be in the picture in a good way. He's thought that from the start, even though he already knew what the Handmaidens are like. Maybe I should follow his lead on that one. But I can't shake the voice in the back of my mind that says she's using me. It's too late; the seed of paranoia has been planted, and it'll grow faster the more I think about it.

"Tell me, Mister Roman, do you have ideas? Anything you would like to do if you had just little bit more time and resources?"

"What, you mean like hopes and dreams?" I snort. "I'm a Road Warrior; my only goals are to stay alive and not go insane."

The Historyman hums, unconvinced.

"I guess… my car needs upgrades. Reinforced windshields, a hatch up top, maybe some light armor, hidden weapons. Maybe rig it up so people can't steal it too easy, like Three's ride. And something better than chicken wire for the damn windows."

"Do you ever think of anything other than ways of killing people, Mister Roman? Take it from a half-life: there is more to life than simply survival. Within everyone is a romantic, an intellectual, a philanthropist."

"Too fancy for me. Killing people is the only reason I've lasted this long; course I think about it a lot."

Sasha hangs his head. "I understand. Could you please do something for me and remember this quote? 'Where must we go… we who wander this Wasteland in search of our better selves?'"

"What's that mean?"

"The First Historyman said it. It means different things to different people; you, Mister Roman, must determine what it means to you. It is very important to me, and someday, I think it will be important to you."

"I'll, uh, keep it in mind, yeah?"

I repeat the phrase in my mind till it sticks.

Sasha continues to write in his book. Is he recording new thoughts about me? Scribbling down how disappointed he is to have met a Road Warrior who acts like a Road Warrior? Even if Trace is using me - if she doesn't think there's anything different about me - I think Sasha really does see something in me. Hell if I know what that is. He wants me to be something I'm not. Does he just hate killing, or does he think I can be better than I am now? The Historyman may have more knowledge than I'll ever have, but he's wrong about me. The Road is all I know.

Time crawls. I struggle to control my restlessness. Ann will be back any moment now. _Have faith._

When the full moon clears the horizon, Jaw's ears perk up. The hair on the nape of my neck twitches. Is someone watching us? The fur on the dog's back rises, and he barks out a warning.

Sasha slams his book shut and raises his head. "Mister Roman!"

"In the car! Now!"

I slide down the windshield and collide with Sasha. We land on the ground beside Jaw, who continues to bark. Sharp pain shoots through my abdomen, but I ignore it. My mind races. Is it the Rakshasa? Something new? Something deadlier?

Focus. Find out what we're up against, and deal with it. Adrenaline and stubborn determination pump through my veins. We are _not_ dying this close to the damn Temple.

We scramble into the car. In the passenger seat, Sasha quiets Jaw. Outside, rapid footsteps swish through the sand.

"Beasts!" the Historyman cries.

A pack of raggedy, black dogs bound into view, each at least twice the size of Jaw. The animals form a perimeter around the car - two circles of four dogs each. Well-trained. They prowl around the vehicle with teeth bared.

"Rakshasa nearby," Sasha says.

I raise my rifle. At the first sign of movement, the dogs break formation and charge. Four of them attack the windows. Silver teeth flash. The beasts chew through the chicken wire in an instant. The twisted metal cuts their faces and gums, but they pay no heed.

I smash the butt of the rifle into one dog's snouts. "Sasha, get down!"

Sasha slides off his seat and crouches below the dash. Jaw snaps and claws at the beasts on the passenger side. As we fight, a cloud of thick, yellow smoke rises from the ground. Poison? Marking our location? Can't stay here. What about Ann? If she returns to discover we're gone, we might never find each other again. But if she comes back to this, we're all dead. We'll find her and get the hell out of here.

The engine engages, and I floor the accelerator. The beasts fall from the windows as we peel away. But we don't get far. My vehicle slows to a stop. The wheels spin in the sand. My heart sinks. The other four dogs have chewed through the tires. We're stuck.

"Shit!"

Sasha peers at me with wide, reddened eyes. For the first time, his emotions are clear: he's afraid.

I haul the half-life Historyman up from the floor. "Get in the back."

Jaw whines and follows Sasha. I drop the rifle into the vacant passenger seat. With the knife and pistol out, I move to the space between the front seats, away from the busted chicken wire. The beasts do not return, but the smoke continues to rise. Yellow fog fills the car, thick and impossible to see through, but breathable. Not poison. A distraction or a signal.

"Can you see anything?" I ask.

"No, watch out flashbang," Sasha says, his speech broken and panicked.

"They use guns?"

"No, bows."

A small, can-shaped object emerges from the smoke and flies towards the open driver window. Adrenaline-fueled reflexes bring my arm up, and I squeeze the pistol trigger. The bullet strikes the object, which drops into the smoke beside the car. A moment later, a flash of light erupts where it landed, along with a loud, persistent ringing that pierces my good ear.

"Give me the other blankets," I say.

I attach the fabric to the shredded fragments of chicken wire. The makeshift curtains won't hold back a dog or a person, but they might stop more flashbangs.

We wait in smoke and silence. No attacks, no dogs, no flashbangs.

Something taps the outside of the driver door.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Trick. Try to draw us out."

Another tap, another, another. _Tap… tap… tap._ Quiet, slow, rhythmic. After each sound, I hold my breath and wait for the next one in horrible anticipation. What the hell is it?

The screech of sharp metal on metal pierces the night air. I cry out and cover my ear. Jaw huddles in the backseat - ears back, head low, eyes darting around in fear. Sasha presses gloved hands to his ears. The noise is everywhere at once. Smoke and sound overwhelm me. The walls of the car close in. Never felt so trapped before, so helpless.

The ringing ends. Sasha lowers his hands and takes a shuddering breath. "We need to do something, Mister Roman. We can't stay here."

"Leaving the car is exactly what they want."

"They will tire of toying with us eventually."

"You got a plan?"

"I have one idea. We need to throw the food out for hounds."

"How much?"

"As much as we can."

I grit my teeth. "Won't distract them for long. When they come after us, we - _I_ fight. Keep Jaw with you. He'll protect you if I get taken down."

Sasha nods. "I can do that."

I remove the blanket curtains, and we open the cans and rations so the dogs can smell the food. Sasha grabs the end of Jaw's rope leash.

"Ready when you are, Mister Roman."

The adrenaline rush returns, stronger than ever. I open the door, letting the smoke flood the car completely. My vision turns yellow. I crouch behind the open door, hurling the food as far from the car as I can. The sand shifts and swishes as many feet move through the night, but nothing emerges from the smoke to attack us.

I pull the driver seat forward. Jaw leaps out first, and for a moment, I'm terrified he'll just keep going. But he stops when his leash goes taught. Even with his weakened fingers, Sasha doesn't let go of the rope.

We hurry away from the car, heading in the opposite direction as the food. Sasha struggles to keep up. For a terrifying instant, I tell myself to leave him behind. When the dogs finish with the food, they'll find him first, giving me more time. But without the Historyman, I'll never find Victoria Temple. Worse, I'll have to live with his death. I can't do that again. My Road Warrior instincts scream at me to move, but I slow down and grab Sasha's frail arm.

A sharp _crack_ echoes across the Wasteland. I pull Sasha to the ground and cover both our heads with my arms. Another _crack._ Different than the flashbangs or arrows. I know this sound: it's a firearm.

"That's Ann!" Sasha cries. "I would recognize that rifle anywhere."

"Let's move!"

I haul Sasha up, and we run. The beasts bark. Another shot from Ann's rifle pierces the air, followed by the familiar ringing of a trick arrow. The Rakshasa are shooting back at her. I can't tell where she is, but can they? Does she need our help?

We break free of the smoke at last. Moonlit sand stretches out to the horizon. No one in sight. I take a deep breath of clean air. Somewhere in the yellow fog behind us, dogs bark again. Getting closer.

"The Rakshasa… have… started moving… Mister Roman," Sasha gasps.

The Historyman stumbles and falls to his knees. As I turn to help him, a black, mangy shape barrels out of the smoke and slams into my chest. My back hits the sand with a muffled thud. The beast snarls and snaps. Foamy drool mixed with blood splatters my face. With all my strength, I hold the dog's head away from my neck.

_Crack!_ Blood erupts from the dog's side. The beast collapses on top of me. Dead.

A familiar voice calls from somewhere in the smoke: "Sasha, Roman, run! Southeast! I can hold them! Please!"

I heave the dead beast into the sand and get to my feet.

"Come on!" I command.

Sasha tries to rise, but his bandaged legs give out again. I slide an arm under his armpit and half-carry, half-drag him along. Nothing else emerges from the smoke to give chase as we take off into the Wasteland. I keep the moon to my left and run as fast as I can with the frail Historyman on my arm. Jaw easily keeps up. Behind us, Ann fires again and again. Each crack of her rifle gives me hope that we might just make it out of here. And it means she's still alive.

The sounds of combat fade into the distance. Eventually, they stop altogether. What that means for Ann, I don't know. Sasha told me to have faith. Right now, that's the only thing I can do for her.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Sasha passes out from exhaustion not long into our flight from the Rakshasa. I drape his limp body over my shoulders and keep going. No way I'm leaving another person behind. Long after the gunfire and flashbangs have ceased, a new sound splits the night: an explosion. But there's no light - no fire or flare. Just a _boom_ that rumbles the earth. I scramble around the side of a dune and set Sasha down. Jaw stays close, his ears alert. Another attack? A trap? Have the Rakshasa caught up with us already?

Silence. The sand settles. Jaw's ears return to normal, and he yawns. I creep out from behind the dune. Nothing happens. All clear. Whatever made that noise is gone. I pick up the unconscious Historyman and run.

At dawn, my strength fails. My knees hit the ground on the far side of another dune. Jaw's panting and my loud, ragged breathing sound like a sandstorm blowing in. I set Sasha down in the pale sand. He's still unconscious, his breath shallower than usual. I allow Jaw and myself one painfully small sip each from the canteen. We'll run out of water before long. If the Rakshasa don't get us first. They may have lost us in the night, but what if their dogs are trained to track? Doubt Ann managed to take them all out. My faith's gone, along with my energy. But we can't stay here long.

The morning sun bathes the Wasteland in pink and orange. The air loses its frigid bite, but I hardly notice. My entire body is on fire, and my abdomen feels like it's been sliced open anew. Under my sliced and stained shirt, fresh blood seeps through the bandages. Must've torn the stitches.

Jaw falls asleep, his snores as loud as a motorbike engine. Beside him, Sasha stirs. The leper's reddened eyes creak open behind his mask. His gaze darts all around and settles on me.

"Are you okay, Mister Roman?"

"Yeah. Just stopped to catch my breath. How 'bout you?"

Sasha sits up and pats himself down. "I don't see any obvious physical injuries. I think I am okay."

"Good. We have to keep moving." I offer him the canteen.

"We are almost to the Temple. So that is good. The walk on the Salt will be brutal without rations, but I think we can do it." Sasha turns away and lifts his mask to drink.

"We have to cross the Salt?" I ask. "Are you mad? No one who goes there ever comes back."

Sasha lowers his mask. "Victoria Temple stands on island, short way into the Salt, Mister Roman. We will not face the full peril of the Great White. We would not survive that." He returns the canteen and notices the wet blood on my hand. He looks down at my reddened shirt in alarm. "Oh my. Why didn't you tell me you were bleeding so profusely? Please, Mister Roman, lie down. I will examine your wound."

"Uh-uh. Can't afford to waste any time. I can make it if we're close."

Sasha huffs - the nearest he's come to anger since we met. "Mister Roman, please don't be an ass. You could bleed out again, and I certainly can't carry you. I need to examine you as soon as possible; otherwise, we are dead."

"Fine. Let's get it over with."

I shed my shirt and lie down. Sasha unravels the bandages wrapped around my stomach. Hot, salty air hits the exposed tissue, and I wince. Under the fresh and dried blood, the wound stretches diagonally from my bottom rib, past my navel, to my opposite hip bone. Much larger than I thought. If Engel's axe had cut any deeper, my guts would've spilled out. If it ever manages to heal, it'll make a nasty scar.

The young Historyman pokes and prods at the stitches. "Just a tear in the sutures. It should be easy enough to fix. Thankfully, you did not lose much blood yet. You will be fine."

Sasha produces a small spool of wire and a curved needle from somewhere in his sleeves. He fiddles with them for a moment, then sighs. When he speaks, his usually calm voice is strained and anxious.

"Mister Roman, could you, uh… thread this for me?"

"I can try." The task takes more attempts than I'm proud of, but at last, the wire slips through the tiny hole. "You a Historyman and an Organic?"

"No, I have just studied medicine. My hands don't work well. Plus, I am not type of person people typically want to operate on them."

He inserts the needle into my flesh, shakes his head, and jabs the point somewhere else. He does this again and again until his twisted fingers finally hit the right spot.

"I am so sorry," Sasha sputters. "I shouldn't even be doing this. But it is better than bleeding out."

I grit my teeth to hide my discomfort as he works the wire through my flesh with unsteady hands. Never seen him so rattled. Can't just be from the stitches. No, it's everything. It's all gone wrong. Is Sasha replaying the attack in his head, too? Every time I blink, the dogs leap at me. The smoke rises, the flashbang explodes, the trick arrow screams. Ann screams, too. She tells us to run, her voice full of fear. _Please!_ The spark of guilt alights in my chest and burns. So many things I could have done differently. But they all end with one or all of us dead. I run the scenarios anyway, convinced there must have been something I could have done. I shouldn't think about it so much, but it's damn hard to fight alone.

"Sasha?"

"Yes, Mister Roman?"

"I'm… sorry about Ann."

"Mister Roman, I am not going to lie to you. I am sad. And scared. But Miss Andromeda was doing what she felt she needed to do to protect the ones she loved. I would have done the same had I the ability."

"I should've done something."

"All the emotion and self-pity in the world won't bring Miss Andromeda back. Action will. And right now, that action is making it to Victoria Temple. After that, we will gather help to get Miss Andromeda back."

"What if she's -"

"Mister Roman, don't let your fear and sorrow control you. You are stronger than your emotions."

"Do my best," I promise, unconvinced.

"There." Sasha ties off the wire and leans back. "That will hold over until we get professional. I am sure Miss Trace is much better."

"Long as they stay put, they're good enough for me. Thanks."

Sasha nods. I sit up and inspect the Historyman's handiwork. The new stitches are a jagged mess, but they look like they'll hold up. Together, we wrap the old, bloody bandages around the wound. When I stand, my leg muscles spasm, but I force myself to stay upright. We have to get moving. Jaw gets up and shakes the white dust from his fur. He sniffs Sasha's shoulder and wags his tail.

"Come on," I say. Sasha takes my hand and gets to his feet. "Which way to the Salt? Not sure how off course I got last night."

The Historyman pulls out the compass and points to the right of the rising sun. "That way. We are close to the Salt. Once we get there, there is no chance the Rakshasa will follow."

"Yeah, you'd have to be crazy to go out there."

"Thankfully, we have the highest concentration of crazy for miles."  
That gets a half-smile out of me. The three of us walk side by side toward the Salt. In the daylight, I feel exposed, vulnerable. My body aches. Our pace is agonizingly slow without a car. My body aches with each step. The events of last night still haunt my mind, but I do what I can to focus on right now. On Sasha and Jaw. On Victoria Temple. We're so close now.

At midday, we crest the final dune. Ahead, sand spills over a shallow cliff that runs left and right to the horizon. Beyond the short drop, flat plains of white stretches across the rest of the world. The Salt. The White Nothing, the Razor Sea, the Bowels. An expanse of cracked earth covered with small, razor-sharp shards. According to the stories, walking on the Salt kicks up tiny particles that irritate eyes and lungs. The crystals shred cloth and tear flesh. The stark white ground amplifies the sun's heat. Even the most seasoned scavengers avoid this place. But here we are - a grounded Road Warrior, a leper, and a dog equipped with five weapons, no food, and less than ten sips of water.

"We need to rest," Sasha says. "It is too hot to continue. Let us hide in shade at the bottom."

I tear my gaze away from the endless nothing. Behind us, the horizon is clear of pursuers. No one stupid enough to chase us into the Salt. But also no Ann. The three of us clamber down the dune and sit at the base of the shallow cliff. The shade is incredible after a day of brutal sunlight. Jaw curls up between Sasha and me. I close my eyes and lean back against the hardened earth wall. My body throbs with each heartbeat. Even relaxation hurts.

"How much farther from here?" I ask.

"Half day. It will be hard, but we can do it, Mister Roman."

"We got this far, yeah?"

My voice sounds far away. A night of running and half a day of walking catches up with me all at once. Exhaustion takes control, and my body sinks into the earth. I struggle to stay awake, but my eyes refuse to open. The orange glow behind my eyelids fades to black, and I slip away.

Rough movement jolts me awake. I open my eyes, but there's only dark. Fabric covers my face. Restraints hold my body in place, but my hands are free. I pull the fabric away, and white light blinds me. The taste of salt burns my throat. The movement doesn't stop. My body sways from side to side as something beneath me plods forward. Without sight to ground me, the motion is sickening. Bile crawls into the back of my mouth, but my instincts kick in to keep the precious water down. I press the cloth to my mouth and nose.

My eyes adjust to the light. Mid-afternoon. Salt surrounds me, but I sit high above the ground in some kind of seat. Strapped in but not tied down. Someone had removed my coat, but the pickaxe and pistol still hang from my belt. My canteen rests in my lap. Beneath the chair is an animal with shaggy fur, long legs, and a hump on its back. Not a horse. A camel? In front of me, someone small sits in another seat rigged up to the beast. A grey, tattered hood peaks up above the headrest.

"Sa…" I croak. My tongue is like a rock in my mouth. I lower the fabric - my scarf - and bring the canteen to my salt-cracked lips. Someone has refilled it. Warm water rushes down my throat, and I try to speak again. "Sasha?"

The Historyman's masked face appears around the side of his seat. When he speaks, excitement colors his voice. For the first time, the Historyman from Ares sounds happy. "Ah, you're awake, Mister Roman Good to hear from you again. We have been rescued! You would not wake, but our friends assured me that you would live. Jaw is sleeping under the jacket on the bags behind you."

I ignore the ache in my muscles and lean over in the seat to get a better look at our surroundings. The Salt stretches out in all directions - not a landmark in sight. Another camel rigged to carry passengers walks in front of ours. Protective fabric and goggles hide the features of the beast's two riders.

"Who are they?" I ask.

"Two Historymen from the Temple. They were on patrol and found us. But more on that later. For now, eat and rest." He leans around the seat and hands me a round, red object that I recognize from Eden: a tomato. "You've earned it, sir."

I tear into the food. Salty air mixes with the juicy, red flesh. Never tasted anything better. I devour it in a handful of bites.

"Now go back to sleep, Mister Roman. You have only been out for a couple hours."

"Wake me up this time if something happens, yeah?"

"I will try."

Fatigue overwhelms by tired muscles again. I pull the scarf over my face and close my eyes. Despite traveling through one of the Wasteland's most dangerous places, I feel oddly safe. Sasha's here, and he's happy. We must be in good hands.

The next thing I know, someone is gently shaking me.

"Wake up, Mister Roman. We are here."

Sasha's bloodshot eyes stare at me through the holes in his brass mask. He has pulled the scarf from my face. Behind him, an enormous, rectangular building stands on top of a steep hill. Rows of intact glass windows are set into the white brick walls. Pre-Fall. Almost Utopian. Patches of grass and some larger plants grow on the hill, impossibly green against the white earth. Late afternoon sunlight beats against the brick and unbroken glass, but our camel stands in the shade of two tall trees with long, wide leaves. The hellscape of the Salt surrounds this place, cutting it off from the rest of the Wasteland.

A familiar, sand-colored snout obscures my vision. Jaw licks my face once and leaps from the camel. Sasha helps unfasten my straps, and I slide from the seat to join Jaw on the sandy ground. Takes a moment to find my balance after sitting so long, but my legs don't hurt nearly as bad as before I slept. I grab my jacket and weapons from the baggage strapped to the camel's back.

"Could you help me climb down?" Sasha asks.

I nod and reach up with both arms. A moment later, the Historyman's feet touch the ground. Only then, as we stand together before the magnificent building, does it finally hits me:

"We made it."

"Yes, we did, Mister Roman. Yes, we did. But let us meet our hosts before we get too comfortable."

Two figures approach from the shade of another tree. They have shed their protective gear and left it with the other camel. Two men, both tall and lanky. One is shirtless and doesn't have a trace of hair anywhere on his body. Every inch of exposed skin is covered in word tattoos like the ones under Sasha's bandages. Broken chains dangle from metal bands around the man's wrists and ankles. Aside from his height and build, the other man is quite different. He has a long, dark beard. His hair is slicked back on top with the sides shaved. He wears a long, open coat without sleeves. Embroidered yellow thread creates simplistic images of animals and people in the grey fabric. The second man's skin also sports tattoos, but his face has been left unmarked. These Historymen look so different from Sasha, who stands hunched and wrapped in bandages beside me.

The bearded man smiles at me and raises a hand in greeting. His deep voice booms like an engine without a muffler: "I see you're finally awake! Welcome to Victoria Temple! A friend of Sasha is a friend of ours. My name's Storyteller. And this here's my brother, Timekeeper."

He bows low and splays his arms. The bald man simply nods.

"Roman," I reply. "Glad you found us."

Storyteller straightens up and laughs. "That's for damn sure! In that shape you two were in, I doubt you could've made it. Now, I'd love to stand around and chit-chat some more, but I think you" —he points at me and grins— "would like to see Trace."

My breath catches. "She's here?"

"She's here."


	12. Chapter 12

The bald Historyman, Timekeeper, gestures for me to walk ahead of him toward the white brick building. His chains rattle with the movement. Jaw follows on my heels. Storyteller and Sasha take the lead as we climb white stairs set into the hill. On the back of the bearded Historyman's jacket, a man made of yellow thread fights a reptilian creature with engine parts sprouting from its body. I stare at the image with foggy eyes, lost in a sandstorm of thoughts. She's here. Trace is _here._ She made it to Victoria Temple, and I found her. What should I say to her? What will she do? Will she be the same as in Eden? Does she want to use me for some scheme?

At the top of the hill, we take a stone path around the building instead of going inside. We turn a corner, and a valley opens up before us. I freeze as the true scale of Victoria Temple is revealed. At least twenty enormous brick structures stand in a rough circle around a large, grassy field. Dozens of people work among the plants, horses, camels, and pigs. The Historyfolk wear little clothing in the heat, and their exposed skin is covered in tattoos.

Storyteller glances back at me and chuckles. "Come on, Trace is tending to the tomatoes."

I trail behind him and stare at the place in awe. It's beautiful. Untouched by the rest of the world, serene, full of life. Not as foreboding as Eden or Ares, not a closed off as Utopia. No wonder Historyfolk keep this place a secret; the outside world would corrupt it in an instant.

We enter the field. The smell of plant life and wet earth chases the last tinges of Salt from my nose. We pass horse and camel corrals, pig pens, rows of plants, and tall trees. Jaw does his best to keep up while sniffing everything he comes across, including the Historyfolk. The tattooed look up in alarm. They smile when they spot Storyteller and Timekeeper. Many of them stare at Sasha in shock. Some of them glance my way but quickly avert their eyes.

Finally, we reach the tomato plants. Trace digs barefoot in a patch of bare earth beside a red wagon full plants, soil, and spades. She's traded the see-through uniform of Anuket and her Handmaidens for a long, white skirt with slits on both sides and black shorts underneath. Her oversized purple flannel shirt hangs open to reveal cloth wrappings around her chest.

"Trace, ma'am!" Storyteller calls.

Trace looks up from her work and smiles at the Historyman. Then she sees me, and her grin vanishes. We stare at each other, unmoving.

Storyteller steps forward with Sasha. "You know Roman, but I'd like to introduce you to -"

Before he finishes, Trace breaks into a dead sprint. She collides with me, forcing the air from my lungs in a puff. The escaped Handmaiden wraps her arms around me and cries softly against my chest. I stand still, speechless, arms half-raised. The wound in my abdomen stings. What do I do? What do I think? Out of all the things I thought might happen, this wasn't one of them.

"You're, uh… you're hurting me," I say at last.

"Oh!" Trace steps back and wipes away her tears. "Sorry, that was dangerous of me. I forget what Warriors are like sometimes. Ugh, I'm sorry, Roman. I just - I don't know. I didn't know if you would come. If you would make it. If you would _want_ to come. It's just a lot of emotions right now, you know."

Storyteller chuckles. "Nice to see you two are so well-acquainted."

"I think it is lovely," Sasha agrees.

Trace turns to the masked Historyman and hops with excitement. "Oh! You must be Sasha! I've heard so much about you. You're quite famous, you know."

"Undeserved, all of it. I am just a man. I loathe that my reputation precedes me."

Trace smiles. "In that case, we can start over. I'll pretend that I don't know anything about you, and you can tell me about yourself."

"I would very much like that, Miss Trace, thank you. But it will need to wait. Mister Roman and I need help from the three of you." Sasha nods at me.

"Rakshasa attacked us," I say. "Our friend held them off while Sasha and I escaped. There's a chance she's still alive out there."

"Course, my brother and I will do anything to help you, boys." Storyteller puts his hands on his hips and pushes back his jacket to reveal a holstered revolver. Timekeeper nods.

"But how?" Trace asks. "We have no vehicles or guzzolene. And all of our soldiers are standing right here."

"Ma'am, I think I speak for the both of us when I say we would put our lives on the line to help Sasha here." Storyteller looks down at the masked Historyman. "Sorry, buddy, but even out here we've heard about you."

"I just wish we could negotiate with them," Trace says, her face contorted in stress. "Save the effort. But they don't know our tongue, and we don't speak theirs."

"Actually, Miss Trace, one of us does," Sasha says. "This one, to be exact. And they have Mister Roman's car, which means they have a radio."

"Wonderful, little Sasha!" Storyteller cries. "Timekeeper and I will bring you to our radio tower. You can trade them anything we have except camels. I don't want them getting brave enough to try to cross the Salt. Trace, you patch up our new friend here." The bearded Historyman claps a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, friend, we'll get your car and your friend back."

"Thank you." I make eye contact with Sasha through the holes in his mask. "Good luck, Sasha."

"You, too, Mister Roman," Sasha says.

The three Historymen head north through the field. Never dreamed it would be so easy to convince anyone to help us. Is Sasha really that famous? If so, it's no wonder Ares had me pass a test to take him away.

"Come on, Roman," Trace says. "I have my medical tools in my room."

She takes my hand, but I pull away. Her smile fades as she turns to leave. Jaw wags his tail, and together we follow Trace toward a square building on the opposite side of the field. There are several of these buildings - several stories high with rows of uniform windows. At the base of the building, Trace opens a glass door. A well-lit, grey and white hallway stretches ahead. Each wall has many doors. Not nearly as bad as the halls in Ares. It's peaceful and bright - more like Eden. Memories resurface. I've done this before. Six days ago, I followed Trace down a hall to get medical attention. Is she thinking the same thing?

Trace opens one of the doors to reveal a square room with a high ceiling and bare, beige walls. Afternoon light shines through a glass window. Outside, a light breeze moves through the green grass. The view makes the room feel more spacious than it actually is. Not cramped like Eden. Jaw jumps up into the armchair near the window and curls up in the sunlight.

"Please excuse how boring it is; I haven't had a chance to decorate yet." Trace points to the small bed pushed up against a wall. "Anyway, please, sit down and I'll take a look."

I feel a little guilty for getting dirt and flecks of dried blood on the white sheets, but I do as she says. The mattress is thin and firm, but it beats sitting on rocks and sand. I shed my jacket, scarf, and shirt. Trace and I remove the blood-hardened bandages together. Underneath, an ugly mess of stitches and scabs cuts across my abdomen. The swelling has gone down since this morning, but I can't tell if that makes the stitches look better or worse. Trace contorts her face in disgust.

"Is it infected?" I ask.

She leans in close and examines the wound with a trained eye. "No, no, it's fine, surprisingly. These stitches will hold. No reason to redo them and agitate the wound more. But we need to keep it clean." Her voice grows quiet, sorrowful. "What happened?"

"Ares had me prove myself before I could take Sasha out of the city. Got cut pretty bad. Then I tore the stitches running from the Rakshasa. Sasha patched it, but he thinks you can do better."

Trace fetches medical supplies from a desk near the window. "I hear you're called Aesircide now."

"Yeah, Anuket's bandit problem turned out to be a rogue Asgardian. The man I fought in Ares was Asgardian, too."

"You've been busy."

"Did you run into any trouble on the way here?"

"Not really. Everything went according to plan. A Crocodile got me a bike, the Defector got me through the Graveyard of Giants, and then it was basically a straight shot here. It was so easy I was a little upset I didn't do it sooner." She hangs her head. "Nothing like what happened to you."

Like in Eden, she cleans the wound and wraps the area in clean bandages. But this time, something is different. She pauses several times during her work and stares at the wound. Her fingers linger on my body longer than necessary.

"I want to see your legs, too. The other wound, I mean. Something tells me it hasn't been looked at since I stitched it up."

"Yeah. Er, I mean, no." I trip over my words, distracted by her odd behavior. "No, it hasn't been looked at."  
Trace stands and discards the old bandages. I watch her curiously, but she won't look me in the eye. I give up on that and pull off my boots. Sand spills onto the clean floor, along with a small piece of paper. The former Handmaiden picks up the note and smiles.

"You, uh, dropped that back in Eden," I say. "Wouldn't be here without it. Paid a guy in Ares a lot of scrap to read it for me."

"Sounds like a work expense. I will probably need to reimburse you for that."

I roll up my pant leg. To Trace's surprise, the Mozzie spear wound has healed. Must be my Utopian blood. Trace removes the stitches with the ease of an expert, but again, she takes her time. Her hands press against my thigh. Long, dark hair hides her face and emotions. What's she doing? What's she thinking?

"There, done." She stands and puts the medical supplies away. "After some real rest, you'll be practically fully functional."

"Till I get in a fight and tear those stitches again."

Trace frowns. "Roman… You're here now. You can stay. Storyteller and Timekeeper would love to keep you. It's hard work, but it's safe. You won't need to fight or kill ever again."

"You sound like Sasha. Fighting is my job. I'm a Road Warrior, yeah?"

"But if you stay, you'll have me, and Sasha, and - and - and your cute dog! And once Sasha and the boys get your friend back, she can stay, too!" She smiles and waves her arms around in excitement. "We can get you all your own rooms! Much less cramped than a car."

"My car has plenty of room."

Trace hangs her head. "Yes, I'm sure it does."

Or at least it did. No telling what the Rakshasa have done with it by now. Could have scrapped it for parts or turned it into a house. Then there's Ann. I don't want to imagine what the Rakshasa might be doing to her right now - if they captured her, if she's still alive.

"Why did you decide to come for me?" Trace asks. Her eyes bore into me like Sasha's.

"You hear about the bounty on you? I had to take the job."

"Don't tell me you're here to drag me back to Anuket."

"Could be."

She crosses her arms. "We _both_ know that's bull."

I fix my pants - an excuse to keep from looking her in the eye. "I… didn't really know what I was going to do if I found you. People kept telling me different things - Three, Khopesh, Cold Blood. Sasha called you 'one of the most powerful individuals in the Wastes.' And I... got scared. Like Three was right about you all along."

"You never saw my political facade. Just me. Just Trace."

"But the things you said in Eden. And to Cold Blood. And that note." I straighten up and meet her gaze. Her analytical expression softens. "You want something from me. It's all part of some plan, yeah?"

She shakes her head. "No. No more servitude, no more scheming, no more politics. I don't want to do that anymore. I just want to be me."

I frown. This is all backward. Most people spend their whole lives trying to get even a taste of what she had in Eden. And she just threw it all away. Then again, I did the same thing a long time ago. That was for very different reasons, of course, but I still did it. I made the decision to leave Utopia, and I never want to go back. I know, deep down, that I belong in the Wastes. Trace knows she belongs far away from Eden. Should I trust her? That isn't something I do much, but I've ended up trusting more people in the past few days than in the thousands of days before. Sasha knows what Trace is capable of, but he trusts her. And he's way smarter than I'll ever be.

"I'm… sorry for what I said back in Eden. I let my guard down, and then Three… I didn't know what to think. I was wrong."

"Roman." Her expression shifts between joy and sorrow. She sits on the bed beside me. "I'm sorry, too, about all the trouble I caused. You got hurt because of me."

"I got hurt because I took a job. Not your fault."

She places a hand on my arm. "Leaving was really dangerous of me, of course. It still is. But it's worth it. I don't want that life anymore. I can be more than that."

The warmth of her hand seeps into my skin. This time, I don't pull away. "It's… good to see you again, Trace."

"It's good to see you, too. You don't need to say any more; I understand. Guess what!"

"What?"

She leans in and kisses my cheek. "I was right about you, Roman."

I stare at her in surprise. Heat rises in my face. "Uh… Good. I think. That's good, yeah?"

"Yes, Roman, it is." She smiles under sparkling blue eyes. "Here! Since you had so much fun with the first note, I'll give you another one." She pulls a pen from her breast pocket and scribbles on the worn paper.

I glance over the symbols that mean nothing to me. "Don't know if I would call it fun. I can just get Sasha to read it for me this time, yeah?"

She giggles. "No! No, you can read that note _yourself._ Eventually. You still want me to teach you, correct?"

"Yeah, think I'd like that."

"Great! We'll start as soon as you get back." Trace hands me the note and jumps to her feet. She curls her fingers in an imitation of claws. "Come on, big, scary Aesircide. Let's go check on Sasha."

Once I put my clothes on, Trace leads Jaw and me out of the building and back through the central field. Most of the Historyfolk are taking a break from their work. They sit on blankets, share food, and chat in hushed tones. Again, they avoid looking at me.

We leave the field behind and approach a narrow building with a tall, metal structure on the roof. Radio tower. Trace reaches for the door handle, then pauses. Grunts, heavy breaths, and rapid footsteps echo on the other side of the door. I reach for my pistol. The door bursts open, and Storyteller flies out. Trace jumps back to avoid a collision with the winded Historyman.

"Just the folks I was looking for!" Storyteller exclaims. He spies my hand on the pistol and holds up a hand. "Slow down there, buddy. I'm jumpy, too, and a lot faster on the draw."

Trace crosses her arms. "Would it kill you to apologize for almost killing me?"

"Sorry, ma'am." Storyteller takes a swift bow. "Now, this is important! Bad news is that we don't know where Ann is. Good news is neither do the Rakshasa. Apparently, she blew in last night, raised hell, and disappeared."

"Did Sasha make a deal?" Trace asks.

"Yes, we're exchanging five horses and five bushels of apples for the car. The Rakshasa also promise to leave us alone while we search for Ann if we take in one of their kids for some reason. Keeper and Sasha already left to make the trade."

I scowl. "Why didn't they wait for me? It's my car."

"Because you and I, we're going to find Ann. Don't worry, Sasha said he'll treat your ride real nice. Now, time's a-wastin'! Let's rock and roll, Roman."

I open my mouth to protest further, but Storyteller whirls around and takes off with long strides. His long, grey coat flaps behind him. He rounds the corner of the radio building and disappears. The heavy steps of his tall steps echo against white walls.

Trace nudges my shoulder. "You'd better get going before you lose him."

"You'll still be here when I get back, yeah?"

The former Handmaiden laughs. "Don't worry, Roman. I'm not going anywhere this time."

I smile. "C'mon, Jaw."

The sand-colored dog stops sniffing the grass and joins me. I have to jog to catch up with Storyteller, who walks with long-legged strides. As we pass a tall tomato plant, he plucks one of the vegetables and tosses it to me.

"Eat up, Roman. They're good for you."

"Thanks." I bite into the ripe flesh of the tomato. It's just as good as the one I had on the way here - maybe even better now that I can take time to taste it instead of just scarfing it down. "You sure Sasha and your brother will be all right meeting the Rakshasa alone?"

"You tell me, buddy. You know Sasha better than I do. He and Timekeeper seemed pretty confident about the task at hand if that gives you any solace."

"Sasha knows the Rakshasa, yeah, but he can't fight. If they pull something violent -"

Storyteller laughs. "If they pull anything, that's what Keeper is for. You need to worry about us first. Losing a friend and a car is sad, sure" —he frames his face with his hands— "but losing this mug is a Goddamn travesty. You aren't half bad looking, either." He slaps my shoulder hard, and I wince. "So, do you have any idea where Ann could be? Any place she would go that would be familiar with both of you?"

"Uh… We met in Ares, but no way she could make it all the way back there on foot." I scratch at the scar tissue on the side of my head as I think. "Found a car on our way here. Abandoned now. Might find her there - if someone hasn't hauled it off already. Northwest."

"Sounds like as good a place as any."

At the edge of the Temple, we reach a long, squat building with a row of garage doors like Mudraker's motel. Makeshift stables have been set up in each room, where Historyfolk feed, clean, or attach saddles to camels and horses. Not a vehicle in sight.

"Got anything faster than those things?" I ask.

"Camels are fast enough, son," Storyteller says despite the fact that he can't be more than a thousand days older than I am.

The tall, bearded Historyman struts to the largest room. Inside, four Historyfolk attach two saddles to an absolute behemoth of an animal. This camel is nearly double the size of the one I rode earlier. The seats are enormous, too - each with nearly the same amount of room as the driver and passenger seats of my car combined. A large awning stretches above the seats to shade riders from the harsh sun. Several satchels and other storage containers are already strapped to the beast - enough supplies for thirty days, easy.

At the sight of Storyteller, the camel shakes off the Historyfolk. One of them falls from a stepladder as the beast rushes out of the stable. The beast's fur shines white as the Salt. Storyteller opens his arms and catches the camel's massive head in an embrace.

"Hello, Beatrice! It's so good to see you again!"

Beatrice sputters and nearly knocks Storyteller over as she rubs the top of her head against him. I stare at the enormous animal in apprehension. Never seen a living thing that big before. But impressive as she is, she's no car. No way I'd ever trade my wheels for something with a mind of its own. I glance at Jaw, who stares at Storyteller and Beatrice with his head tilted to one side. He senses my gaze and meets my eye.

"Think we'll be like that someday?" I ask. The dog yawns. "Yeah, didn't think so."

"All right, all right!" Storyteller laughs and pushes the creature's head away. "That's enough."

Beatrice backs away and stands at attention. The Historyfolk affix additions to the camel's luggage and tighten the straps. I double check my weapons and ammo, and my stomach tightens. What I'm carrying now is all I own. Haven't been so light on supplies since the dozen days after Simon and Cord died, and even then, I still had a car. If I were on my own now, I'd be good as dead.

Storyteller swings up into the saddle with practiced grace. Jaw leaps onto Beatrice's back with ease while I struggle to find footing among the strap. Storyteller chuckles as I finally settle beside him in the large front seat. He thanks the Historyfolk, and they wish him good luck without looking at me. Have they never seen a Road Warrior before, or do they dislike outsiders? Are they afraid of me? Do they see Road Warriors as barbarians like the Lead Shamans of Ares?

Storyteller snaps the reins. "Let's ride, Beatrice!"

I lurch back as Beatrice gallops through Victoria Temple. She's much faster than I anticipated. The Historyfolk resting in the field look up as we speed past. Some smile at Storyteller, who waves at everyone. Others meet my eyes for a moment. Maybe it's the high angle or the speed at which we pass, but I think they look angry. I spot Trace among the tomatoes. She grins and waves. I raise a hand in return.

Beatrice reaches the edge of the Temple and races down the steep hill. I grip the back of my seat to keep. Behind me, Jaw has no trouble keeping his balance as he enjoys the wind in his fur. At the base of the Temple's island, past the trees, we reach the Great White. Beatrice slows to kick up as little dust as possible. Shards of salt crunch under her massive hooves. I pull my scarf over my mouth and nose. Storyteller closes his jacket and wraps a blanket around his arms. He dons goggles with dark lenses and wraps a grey scarf around his lower face.

Storyteller adjusts the reins, and Beatrice puts the setting sun on her left. Even with the cloth over his mouth, the bearded Historyman's voice is loud as ever. "Buckle up, Roman! We got a long ride ahead of us. Beatrice may not be as fast as a car, but she'll get us there."

Flat, cracked earth surrounds us. A handful of days ago, going anywhere near the Salt was the furthest thing from my mind. So much has changed since then. Now I'm braving the Great White for the second time in one day. And for what? To rescue someone who might already be dead? My Road Warrior instincts tell me it can't be worth the risk; I should get my car back and leave. But if it weren't for Sasha, I might never have found Victoria Temple. And without Ann, Sasha and I wouldn't have survived the Rakshasa attack. Hell, I never would've met Sasha in the first place without Ann's help. And she sold her bar for the supplies we needed. I owe her. I owe both of them.

But there's something more. Three and Khopesh were teammates; we helped each other because we were hired. Ann and Sasha are more than that. They needed me to drive them to the Temple, yeah, but they weren't just passengers. Ann protected me, smiled at me, called me cowboy. Sasha counseled me, shared his fear with me, even said he liked me. I said I liked him back, and I meant it. Trusting people is dangerous, but this is something worse. When was the last time I had people who cared about me?

Cold Blood's stern words resurface: _It's okay to have friends out here. You need them. You won't get far without them._

Wherever Ann is, we'll find her. I won't let my friends down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to everyone who has read this story. Don't be afraid to leave a review or send a PM if you like it, dislike it, or land somewhere in the middle. I want to improve as a writer, so I'm always looking for constructive criticism. As for the future, Book Three will begin this summer. Head over to my profile to learn the details if you're interested. Thanks again to all readers.


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